


Some Legends are Best Kept as Legends

by HollyeLeigh



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Buried Alive, Character Death, F/M, Sleepy Hollow AU, Sort Of, Supernatural Elements, The Dark One (Once Upon a Time), backstory milian, backstory swanfire
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-19
Updated: 2020-10-26
Packaged: 2021-03-05 21:41:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 32,863
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25982275
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HollyeLeigh/pseuds/HollyeLeigh
Summary: Years after ruthlessly humiliating the man known as Rumple von Stiltskin, Killian Jones faced him once again on the battlefield, though it was clear his foe was no longer an ordinary man. Before succumbing to the fatal injury the Dark One’s blade had inflicted, Killian managed to strike a blow of his own with the being’s own ripple-edged dagger. Now, nearly two hundred and fifty years later, Killian finds himself alive and back in his hometown. However, whatever awoke him from his cursed sleep had also raised the Dark One. With all of Storybrooke at risk, can Killian find a way to stop the Dark One once and for all? Perhaps so. With a little help from Deputy Swan and her boy.
Relationships: Captain Hook | Killian Jones/Emma Swan
Comments: 84
Kudos: 90
Collections: Captain Swan Supernatural Summer 2020





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Based on The Legend of Sleepy Hollow short story by Washington Irving, and the Sleepy Hollow Fox tv show. This fic has been rattling around in my brain for over two years now, and I am so thankful to finally be able to share it! 
> 
> Be advised that the opening sequence could be triggering or uncomfortable for those who suffer from claustrophobia, or simply do not do well in tight spaces.

* * *

Killian’s eyes flew open and a gasp filled his lungs. A dank, earthy note hit the back of his throat, forcing a cough to expel from his chest. He saw nothing but utter darkness and wondered if something might be covering his eyes. Reaching up to check, his hand hit a hard surface right above where he lay. Rough, brittle wood brushed against his palm and bits of debris fell in the wake of his inspection.

Where the devil was he?

A far off voice echoed in his ears. His name. Someone was saying his name. The compulsion to find this person overwhelmed him and he began to press against the barricade above him once more. With elbows bent out to his sides to try and leverage that which covered him, Killian met the edges of the structure and cold dread seeped into his chest. Raising his knees, they too hit the confines of his prison, and when he stretched his legs back out, only for his feet to find the same resistance, the awful truth came over him.

A coffin. He was lying in a coffin.

Memories of a duel flashed within his mind’s eye. Metal clanging against metal as he and the man he’d once known as Rumple von Stiltskin fought on the battlefield. Though, it had become clear rather quickly that his foe was no longer a mere man.

_“You once fooled me into thinking I’d met the Dark One on the road over the toll bridge,” Rumple sneered. “You humiliated me that night. Left me exposed in front of the woman I desired and stole her away from me.” He pushed off Killian, freeing himself from the blade he’d become impaled on and cast a simpering smirk upon his opponent. “I bet you never imagined I’d actually find him. Find him, and become him.”_

The rest of their bout played out in Killian’s head, until the moment of his demise pierced his consciousness. The Dark One had run him through. Killian fumbled over the buttons of his coat, feeling for the wound and trying to determine whether he ought to be relieved or alarmed at finding none.

He remembered the sharp pain then the numbness that had quickly followed. The glint of a dagger in the Dark One’s belt and the rush of blood over his hand after embedding it in the demon’s gut. He remembered collapsing to the ground and seeing a swirl of darkness envelop him. Had it been death?

No. It couldn’t have been, for he was alive. He could feel the panicked rasps burning his lungs, could smell the petrichor of recent rainfall and the pine that made up his coffin. His pulse raced, heart hammering in his chest which was clothed by the heavy wool of his uniform. He could move his limbs, could cry out for help, and feel the sting of fresh terror pooling in his eyes. He was most assuredly alive, but for how much longer?

How long had it been since they’d committed his body to the ground? Was the earth still loose enough to try and displace? Could he dig his way out, and make it to the surface before he suffocated?

Scooting along on his back, he positioned himself towards the middle of the box and raised his knees, slamming them into the roof with as much force as he could muster. He supposed he could thank the war for his regiment’s limited resources and the shoddily constructed coffin that was splintering apart with greater ease than he could have hoped for.

Dampened earth began to spill into the cavity, choking the air. Killian pulled at the fabric around his neck, maneuvering it up to his face to cover his mouth and nose as he kicked the dirt down towards the foot of the coffin. Once he’d packed as much of the earth as he could into the corners he shimmied his way towards the opening with his hands over head. With one final deep breath, Killian forced his arms and head clear of the opening. He tucked his legs beneath him and attempted to stand, pressing through the sodden soil until his fingers could feel the brisk air of freedom. Hoping to gain greater purchase, he lifted his leg to stand on the coffin lid. The jagged edges of the splintered wood scraped painfully along his calf, and Killian had to bite back his cry for fear of expelling the precious air in his lungs too soon.

With a new elevation by which to leverage himself, Killian raised up onto his tip toes braced against the outside of the pine box and scrambled for the surface, clawing his way upward until the night air ruffled his hair and mist clung to his face. He couldn’t stop the watery laugh of relieved madness that erupted from his chest as it heaved against the pressure of collapsing earth while he wormed his way further out of the hole, finally crumpling to the ground once he’d wriggled free.

Puffs of air billowed from his lips as he gazed up into the night sky. The moon and stars had never shone more beautifully in his eyes which hazed over before hot tears streaked down his muddy face. With a deep groan, Killian raised himself up into a sitting position to survey the graveyard around him, wiping away the grime and tear streaks with the sleeve of his coat. Not that it did much good. Getting to his knees so he might try and stand, Killian was stopped by the sight of the headstone. His headstone.

Captain Killian Jones

Born 1748 - Died 1780

The stone was worn and mossy beneath his fingers, the letters fading from the erosion of time like those he’d seen in the old cemeteries back in England. But how? It couldn’t have been more than a few days old, carved while his body waited to be interred by the Army. He swatted away the knowledge that such a stone would have likely taken weeks to actually complete, and adjusted his shoulders to ward off the shiver of foreboding that threatened to cascade down his spine.

A snap of branches and hushed voices drew his attention back to his surroundings. Off in the distance he spied four silhouettes, smaller than what he’d expect from adults, and could therefore only surmise they must be children. What the bloody hell were children doing scampering about a cemetery at night? And during a war, no less?

“You there!” Killian called out, standing on shaky legs which made him steady himself against his headstone.

“Run!”

The young boy’s shout rang out among the headstones as the four figures took flight. Killian hobbled after them, his muscles and joints protesting with each stride he made towards the edge of the cemetery. Some of the stiffness had just begun to loosen when he hit the treeline, allowing him to weave between the trunks and saplings while calling out to the scattering youngsters.

Breaking free of the brambles, Killian stopped short when he came upon a hardened, black surface, like a suspended river of pitch. Crouching down to examine the strange sight he noted the yellow glow that illuminated the area around him and fixed his hearing on an unfamiliar buzzing sound. When he looked up he was struck with bewilderment at the towering post that appeared to have some sort of lantern affixed to it. How on earth did anyone manage to light the thing at such a great height?

Turning his attention back to what could only be a road, Killian tested the stability and composition of its surface by taking a few hesitant steps upon it. The children had long since disappeared. Spinning around on the spot, Killian tried to gain a measure of bearing to remember in which direction they’d sprinted off. Once more the sight of carved wording caught his eye and his breath seized in his lungs. Several yards ahead was a sign with a familiar name, but the marker itself was not as he remembered.

Before he could make his way over for closer inspection, the ground beneath his feet started to rumble. Light flooded around him and a monsterous sound bellowed from behind, causing him to turn just in time and avoid being barreled over by a gigantic machine traveling at a far greater speed than his mind could comprehend. Glowing red eyes watched him as the beast continued to hasten down the road, leaving Killian with prickles of terror skittering along his skin and labored breaths stuttering in a frantic rhythm with his heart.

His body was tense and on full alert when he made it to the sign announcing the boundary of the township that lay beyond. The small, seaside hamlet that had been his home since his father had brought him and his older brother to the colonies after their mother had passed in England. A community of farmers and fishermen, simple folk who had tried to stay out of the fray when the revolution had brought war to their doorsteps. But even with the added numbers of naval and infantry on both sides, it would never have been able to boast the population Killian now saw etched next to the town’s founding date.

Welcome to Storybrooke

Founded - 1633 / Population - approx. 50,000

Killian swallowed hard and swiped a hand down his face, the drying mud and grime flaking off into his hand. This could not be real. It had to be a nightmare, a fever induced nightmare he was tormented to suffer while his body waged its own war against the trauma he’d experienced on the battlefield.

He might have been able to convince himself of such a tale were it not for the fact he knew he could never conjure up such images as he was seeing once he’d crested the ridge that overlooked the port town.

Croaking out a lament of despair, Killian questioned, “What the bloody hell has happened to me?”

~/~

_Approximately two hundred and fifty years ago in Storybrooke, Maine…_

Killian Jones’ grip on the delicate glass clutched in his hand was becoming perilous. Casually slouched against the doorframe that led into the grand parlor of the von Tassel house, he watched with clenched jaw as the object of his affections was spun around to the merriment of the music the humble yet lively quartet was providing to the party goers. A party being held in honor of von Tassel’s daughter, Milah. The aforementioned object of Killian Jones’ affections.

It ought to be his arms holding her, his feet moving along in time with the music, his face catching her smile, and his eyes sparkling back to meet her gaze. Not the upstart interloper Rumple von Stiltskin. Killian snorted into his cordial glass. _von_ Stiltskin. If that were truly the man’s name, Killian would eat his cap.

Since the day the tailor had disembarked from the ship that had brought him to the colonies, Killian had suspected the man to be putting on airs. Given his profession, it was expected that he would be well-dressed. Regaled in finery with an unmuddled accent of the Old World, Rumple talked a fine game, but Killian knew, deep down, the man had not grown up in the privileged society he sought to ingratiate himself into once he’d opened shop. His scheme of beguiling the ladies of status with his bolts of silks and fashions currently promenading down the streets of Paris (or so the man claimed), had done its job rather nicely, which would not have mattered to Killian one bit had it not been for the lady of status on whom he’d chosen to set his sights.

Milah gave a delicate curtsy and extricated herself from Rumple’s hold, joining a group of other young women when the song ended. The quartet begged the gathered assembly’s indulgence as they took a well earned respite from play, and Killian’s eyes tracked the tailor as he perused the fine collectibles on display upon the drawing room’s shelves. Trays of refreshment passed and Killian homed in on the way Rumple pocketed delicacies with one hand while sampling with the other. It was a ruse Killian had employed himself when he’d first gained an invite into the lavish lifestyle of the von Tassel’s household. Back when he’d been unsure from where his next meal would come, until Mr. von Tassel had hired him on.

Killian had worked his way up through the staff’s ranks, from lowly field hand to foreman to estate manager, with hard work and determination. And perhaps a good dose of charm and cunning as well. He was not about to see all of his efforts come to naught from an usurping interloper with the visage of a crocodile who seemed to have his reptilian eyes set on the von Tassel fortune by way of their only daughter. Killian had been welcomed into the family’s fold as a trusted asset, all but assured his place within their dynasty, despite his humble beginnings, with only the formality of Milah’s father’s blessing standing between him and his desires of a home and family.

Killian would not be denied. He would not allow this man to slither into von Tassel’s good graces without a fight.

The quartet resumed their places and Killian wasted no time in springing from his vantage point in order to head _von Stiltskin_ off before he could reach Milah.

“May I have the pleasure of a dance, love?” Killian crooned in a low bow before the chestnut haired beauty and her twittering entourage.

Her pale eyes flicked to a point just behind him and Killian’s jaw tightened, knowing she was giving that appraising look to the oily suitor hovering closely by. Always hovering closely by.

“Of course,” she demurred, handing her goblet off to one of her ladies in waiting before setting her hand in Killian’s proffered one.

His arm wrapped around her perhaps a little too tightly, their proximity to one another not exactly proper, but the melody was a quick step with the dancers becoming a blur to the spectators clapping along from the corners. Milah’s cheeks flushed pink, her eyes sparkling from both mirth and the reflections of candlelight they caught with each spin around the room. Her laugh, always the loudest and most infectious, rang out above the cheers from the gathering when the song came to an end, and Killian revelled in the fact that Rumple von Stiltskin had been unable to pull such a reaction from her during their interlude.

“Another?” Killian requested, but his invitation was waved off.

Pressing her hand to her chest where her breaths were still coming in quick succession, Milah shook her head and declared a need for some air. Offering her his arm, Killian escorted her to the porch where her needs would be met while gaining them a bit of privacy from over eager ears.

“Are you having a good time, love?”

“I am,” Milah replied brightly, the setting sun casting an auburn glow that haloed her curls. “It was lovely of my father to arrange the party for me.”

“Indeed.” Killian tried to keep his response light, but the grind of his teeth had not escaped Milah’s attention.

“Oh, my. Is someone jealous about my being introduced into society?” Milah taunted with a coquettish expression. “Do you not wish to see me happy?”

Killian took her hands in his own and peered down at her. “Your happiness is all I wish for,” he said earnestly. “I simply see no reason for you to be paraded out in such a manner.”

“And what manner is that?”

“As though you were seeking a match. As though things hadn’t already been decided--”

“Nothing _has_ been decided,” she reminded him with a mischievous glint in her eye.

Killian’s grip tightened infinitesimally, his jaw following suit with a brief flicker. “You know your father would deny you nothing, Milah. If you told him I was your choice, he would give his blessing and make the announcement this very evening.”

“Perhaps.” She shrugged her shoulders coyly before slipping her hands from his and turned, treading the length of the porch with a seductive sway of her hips.

“Why must you play with my heart so?” Killian embittered, stomping after her. Grasping her elbow, he spun her back around to face him. “You cannot possibly be serious about the tailor.”

Her shoulders rose and fell with another dainty shrug before a soft cough alerted them both to another member of the von Tassel staff.

“His Lordship requests your presence, Miss Milah. He is ready to give his toast.”

Milah gave him a nod of appreciation then followed him back inside, leaving Killian to stew a moment as he watched the beguilingly vexing woman retreat.

Night had fallen with thick swirls of mist by the time the party ended. While most said their farewells and headed for home, a small group gathered around the parlor fire, enjoying a night cap. Killian’s mood had continued to sour throughout the course of the evening. Downright surly, once again slouched against the doorway, he watched the tailor scoot ever closer to where Milah was perched on one of the cushioned chairs next to the crackling fire. Tempted as he was to adjourn to his master’s study in order to procure something stronger for his tankard, he didn’t trust the crocodile with his Milah for even a moment, regardless of the few friends still mingling and the matron quietly knitting in the corner where she served as chaperone.

“Someone should tell a story,” one of the young women chimed, most likely an attempt to draw out the hour so the men did not have to depart just yet.

“Here, here,” one of the men replied. “A story! A ghostly tale to freeze the blood within our veins,” his voice dipped low so as to not be overheard by the still knitting chaperone, “so that we might warm it up again with more wine and a bit of feminine comfort.”

Laughter rumbled through the room and the women all blushed, but Killian noted the way Rumple swallowed nervously. Not a fan of ghost stories, was he? A devious grin bloomed across Killian’s lips and he sauntered over to the fire. Placing his tankard on the mantle, he turned to face the crowd.

“It seems to me that a story is very much in order. I think it only wise to inform our newest resident of the legend that plagues our fair hamlet.”

“L-Legend,” Rumple stammered while the men elbowed one another with knowing looks. “What legend?”

Killian shifted his posture so as to look upon his quarry, his head now profiled in the firelight with one side of his face ablaze from the light of the flickering flames and the other shrouded in darkness. “The Legend of The Darkness of Storybrooke,” Killian answered with a low timbre that had the ladies gasping excitedly. For they all knew of the legend, the story recounted on nights such as this ever since the town had been established.

No one knew for certain from where the tale had originated, and it’s verses were altered slightly with each telling as the narrator took liberties for their own creative devices. This telling would be no different. Sharing looks of significance with his friends, Killian began weaving the haunting tale while relishing each tremble, bead of sweat, and expression of fright that escaped the cowardly tailor.

_Long ago, though no one knows quite when_

_A Darkness inhabited this land from ocean to glen._

_It is said the entity, seeking desperate souls to corrupt_

_Made a deal with a man leaving him internally bankrupt._

_A most unholy union of a parasitic nature was born_

_Giving the man unspeakable power and the Darkness corporal form._

_Together they lured and schemed and plotted_

_Until the man’s heart blackened and rotted._

_Worrying what it would mean to have the host’s heart grow still_

_They sought out a witch to correct it with her blasphemous skill._

_“A new heart is what you require,” the crone did tell_

_“But take heed, this new one will end up failing you as well.”_

_With a fresh heart procured thanks to the witch’s ill placed trust_

_The Darkness and his man continued to indulge in every evil lust._

_But every decade or so when the mist swirls low and the moon is at its crest_

_They must find a new heart to rip from an unsuspecting chest._

_Be vigilant, dear friend, should you see the Dark One cloaked_

_He’ll appear to you thrice before your time is revoked._

_There be but two ways to avoid such a fate_

_Crossing the toll bridge, or obtaining his dagger whose edge is not straight._

_For the first, they say he cannot cross after the witching hour_

_While, the second is rumored to be the source of his power._

_So be cautious, my friend, of the road at night or of deals from a stranger’s lips_

_He’d sooner tear out your heart than help you, for the Dark One lies, the Dark One tricks._

~/~

It was the night’s chill that made his hands tremble as they clutched the reins of his mare, at least, that’s what Rumple was telling himself. Each faint owl’s hoot and snap of a distant twig had him jolting in his saddle, the inky blackness thick with specters conjured from his own imagination as Jones’ words lingered in his ears. Were it not for the full moon, positioned high above the sparse canopy of the wooded trail that led back to the main road, he would most likely have succumbed to the vapors long before now.

By some miracle he had not shamed himself in such a way in front of Jones and his rabble, or the fair Milah and the other ladies that had remained long into the night in front of the fire at the von Tassel home. It had been easier to dismiss the legend out of hand when surrounded by a warm hearth and the company of others, regardless of how tangible an image Jones had conjured the demon Darkness and his henchman host into being with the way he wove the tale with embellished gestures and cunning inflections. Now, alone, with only the moon, faint woodland sounds, and the steady cadence of his horse, Rumple could not dispel the disquiet that mounted within him and swirled through his spirit like the dense mist of the forest floor.

Awareness crept along his spine, an ancient instinct of self-preservation that alerted him to the fact he was not alone in these woods. A hush fell over the forest with only the soft clop of his horse’s hooves breaking the silence. Rumple held his breath and cast his wide eyes to his left and right, taking them briefly from the trail until a hint of movement snapped his attention to a cluster of trees shrouded in fog.

Was that a hooded figure he’d just seen?

Urging the mare into a faster pace, Rumple shook his head. _No, of course not. Don’t be ridiculous._ He admonished himself even as his hands visibly shook and stuttering breaths hung in petrified puffs before him. Branches creaked overhead from a sudden gust of wind sweeping down the main road that had finally come into view, and with it a nearly imperceptible laugh that threatened to freeze the very marrow of Rumple’s bones.

There was no mistaking the figure this time. Looming just beyond the treeline on the other side of the road, his black cloak snapped in the breeze while the hood obscured his features. Rumple frantically flicked the reins and dug his heels into the horse’s side, forcing the animal into a gallop. His pulse thundered in his ears, and the pressure in his chest turned to agony as fear gripped his heart.

The toll bridge. He had to get to the toll bridge.

Craning his neck to look behind, he saw no sign of the dark figure, but kept his relentless pace, nonetheless. He knew his mare would be unable to sustain such speed for long, but the terror flooding his body when another laugh howled on the wind overruled any sense of mercy he may have felt for the poor beast beneath him.

Sweat poured from Rumple’s brow, every muscle screaming from the strain of frightful constriction on his sinew, and his knuckles were surely white beneath his gloves from the way he fisted the reins. Not even the sight of the toll bridge, illuminated by the moon’s soft rays when he rounded the bend, could alleviate any measure of panic. For his mare was tiring, her pace slowing, and no amount of kicks or snaps of his crop could get her moving again.

The deep, menacing timbre reverberated through the air once more, prompting Rumple to abandon his horse and race to the bridge on foot. Dread chased his heels, and terror tore through his lungs with each footfall until he found himself miraculously on the other side of the bridge. Hunched over with heavy breaths of painful exertion, his hands were braced against the tops of his knees while he scanned the road from whence he’d just travelled. His mare, having traversed down to the bank, was likely having a drink from the stream, but no evidence of any other creature could be discerned within the darkness. Heaving one last sigh of relief, and still trembling from his ordeal, Rumple straightened and turned towards town, only to find his path blocked.

Petrified, except for the rapid shallows of his breathing, Rumple gazed up at the dark, hooded figure, certain his heart had stopped. An evil chuckle resonated from deep within the Dark One before his arm lifted and his hand stretched out towards Rumple’s chest. Pleas of desperation fell from his lips while tears streamed down his cheeks, all the while, the Dark One’s hand continued to reach forward, his laughter triumphant in Rumple’s ears. Warmth trickled down his legs and pooled at his feet. His knees failed him, collapsing him onto the sodden earth, pungently dampened with his own fright induced void where he continued to beg for his life.

The ominous chuckle turned into a full on guffaw. The Dark One staggered backward, his arms wrapping around himself as though in glee, and his hood fell away, revealing none other than Killian Jones, joyously chortling beneath the cloak. Other cackles rang out from the darkness as two other hooded figures appeared, pointing and jeering at Rumple’s pitiful form. Hot nettles of humiliation prickled along the back of his neck as still more joined their number, causing Rumple to cower.

“Good thing he’s a tailor,” one of the young men heckled, “He needs new trousers, by the smell of him.”

Another chorus of laughter rang out, striking to life a seething spark of indignation deep within Rumple’s spirit.

“He’ll need more than new trousers when word gets around of how he ran like a coward and pissed himself,” Killian sneered. He crouched down, his nose wrinkling in disgust from the pervasive odor still hanging heavily in the air. Bringing himself eye level with the wretched man before him, Jones mocked, “What woman would want to be shackled to such a yellow-bellied coward? For that matter, what land baron would want such a man for a son-in-law?”

“You-You set me up?” Rumple stammered accusingly. “Wove that tale to instill a sense of foreboding in me, so you could torment me?”

“Oh, the legend is real enough,” Killian professed. “Everyone ‘round these parts knows of the story of the Dark One, but none are fool enough to lend it such credence as to disgrace themselves in the manner you have.”

“You w-won’t get away with this,” Rumple protested, though his words were choked by the tears that threatened to add to his shame. “You are a brute and a scoundrel.”

“He at least knows how to hold his bowels,” a scathing voice sounded from behind his tormentor.

Jones stood, tucking his thumb into his belt as he settled his weight onto his back foot with an arrogant stance and equally smug expression. Holding out his other hand, Milah stepped forward and placed hers within its grasp, allowing him to pull her into his side and wrap a possessive arm around her waist.

“I've seen enough,” she told Jones with a haughtily raised chin and eyes that did not deign to look upon the disgraced man any further. “Take me home.”

“As you wish,” Jones murmured, casting one last victorious look upon his defeated foe.

Alone once more on the cold, dark road, Rumple found he had more than just the moon’s rays, the woodland sounds, and his mare - now returned from its respite - to keep him company. A newly born desperation for vengeance cried out from deep within his soul, and with it, a promise was declared into the night, still swirling with the spectres of his imagination.

“I will not rest until I have my revenge,” Rumple vowed. “There is no cost I would not be willing to pay in order to see Jones get his comeuppance.”

Making his way back down the lane towards town with the weight of what he must do now in order to salvage his reputation, Rumple did not hear the gleeful reply that trilled on the wind.

_Oh, how we love a desperate soul._

~/~

_Several years later, during the American Revolutionary War_

Killian awoke before reveille, wishing to finish his latest letter to his dear wife, Milah, before he would be expected to report for battle. Following in his brother’s footsteps, Killian had enlisted in the Colonial Navy not long after his marriage to Milah. With the mounting taxes from the crown ravaging the Storybrooke landowners, Killian had felt it prudent to both secure himself a way of providing for himself and his young bride, as well as protect the inheritance of her family’s fortune.

His brother, Liam, being much older than he, had already established himself within the ranks and had taken Killian under his wing, as a good big brother would be wont to do. It wasn’t long before Killian himself rose to the position of Lieutenant under his brother’s command, patrolling the Northern Atlantic and protecting ports from invading British ships after the colonies had declared their independence. He’d spent too many years far removed from his home in Storybrooke, and from the wife he had left behind, with only a handful of shore leaves and countless letters by which to keep their love growing.

Truth be told, though his affections for her had not waned over the years and leagues that kept them parted, Killian knew they were both only playing at the notion of love. True love, that is. Theirs had been an infatuation, a feeling of being in love _with_ love when they courted and wed years ago, to say nothing of the social dynamics and expectations thrust upon them from their peers and parentage. Killian longed for the war to end so that he might return home and begin to know his wife for the woman she was and not the one she presented to him in her letters, wishing to keep alive the image of herself as she was the day they wed, lest he find himself wandering.

He had never wandered, though. Oh, his fellow crewman had coaxed him a time or twice to dip his wick in the welcoming warmth of waxen and wanton beauties who wished to show gratitude to the heroes fighting for their freedom and independence whenever they made port. He’d always managed to refrain. His vows to Milah, and wishing to display good form under the watchful eye of his brother and captain being the crux of such resolutions.

How he missed that watchful eye.

Killian’s chest tightened, remembering the battle that had led them back to the shores of Storybrooke. They’d been tasked with protecting the port which served as a repair station for ships damaged in skirmishes at sea. During one such conflict a week ago, Liam had been struck down by a volley of cannon balls that had splintered the main mast, leaving the _Jewel_ crippled and without its captain. Without a moment to process his loss or channel his grief, Killian took command and managed to drive the British frigate out of their waters, winning them a significant victory. One that came with a cost Killian had prayed neither he nor Liam would have to pay.

With barely any time to give his brother a proper burial at sea, Killian and his men had received orders to present themselves to the Army General leading the infantry currently stationed just south of Storybrooke. Upon their arrival, Killian had requested a short leave in order to grieve the loss of his brother and to travel the scant fifteen miles that separated him and his wife, but had been denied. It seemed the redcoats were making their way on foot to try and take the port town by land since their advances by sea had been unsuccessful. Yesterday they’d received word the British army had made camp not far from their present location and fighting would be imminent come morning.

Morning had now come.

After setting the ink on his letter, Killian sealed it and handed it off to his cabin boy who had already reported to his captain for duty.

“See to it this letter is delivered to Mistress Jones today,” Killian ordered.

“But Cap’n! The battle! I--”

“Do as you are told, lad,” Killian barked, sending the scamp away with a dutiful salute and a jolt of terror in his step.

He took no pleasure in being hard on the boy, knowing the prospect of witnessing a land battle first hand was a thrilling one for a lad of his age. Despite the many harrowing experiences he’d had during the war at sea, he still held idealistic views of youth that blinded him to the bloody realities which were about to spill themselves upon the valley separating themselves from the enemy. Killian had no wish to see the boy in harm’s way, which was why he had determined the errand for him. It was also the only way to ensure his letter would reach Milah, should the worst outcome befall him.

The bray of the bugle sounded, ordering the men to their positions. Swinging his coat over his shoulders, Killian finished readying himself, tucking the last letter he’d received from Milah in the breast pocket over his heart before departing the tent and facing what was to come.

He could have never imagined who it was he would come face to face with on that blood soaked battlefield just hours later.

“How’s Milah?” Rumple von Stiltskin taunted with his sword gripped lackadaisically in his hand as he approached a haggard and muck covered Killian.

“Who?” Killian feigned ignorance while squaring off with the man, each of their swords twirling in readiness as they positioned themselves to strike.

Although he was not as Killian remembered, with a strange pallor upon his complexion and a bravado that had been absent during their last encounter, there had been no mistaking the man Killian had once brutally terrorized not but a few miles from where they currently stood when he had emerged from the fray and set his sights upon the weary captain.

As expected, Killian’s response was brushed aside with a disbelieving and chill inducing chitter of a laugh. “Only too happy to _dig out_ the memory,” Rumple said. “But. It gets really messy.”

The inflections in Rumple’s voice sent a shiver down Killian’s spine as dark imaginings coupled with the impossible things he’d witness the man do on this very field permeated his mind.

“She’s dead,” he lied. Clearly in possession of some unnatural sorcery, Killian wasn’t about to risk Milah’s safety by acknowledging her whereabouts to the man who had evil glittering from his visage. “Died long ago. Now, what is it you want? You fight with the British, but I know you hold no loyalty to the crown, so why are you here?”

Rumple stilled and narrowed his black eyes at Killian, his quiet countenance an unnerving juxtaposition to the cacophony of chaos erupting around them in the boom of cannon fire and shouts of soldiers.

“We have unfinished business you and I,” Rumple stated. “And I have waited long enough to slake the thirst of my vengeance.”

Without warning, like a snake which had tightly coiled itself, Rumple struck with lightning speed. Killian barely managed to block his advance, and the two began a deadly match as they dueled among the gunshots and bayonet strikes. Killian quickly grew tired. Already weary from hours of fighting, his sword felt heavy in his grip and he soon began wielding it with both hands while his opponent blocked or sidestepped every strike as though engaged in a quaint country dance.

Killian was no amateur with a blade or the tactics with which to brandish it, however. Using one of the tricky maneuvers his brother had shown him, he suddenly gained the upper hand and before either of them knew it, Rumple found himself hilt deep upon Killian’s sword. Instead of a choking gasp of death, a twittering sound of mirth escaped the man’s lips. His eyes flicked down to where Killian’s hand held the embedded blade before flicking up again with a fresh taunt on his lips.

“You’ll have to do better than that.”

“What the devil?” Killian exhaled on an incredulous breath..

“Not the devil, dearie,” Rumple giggled. “You once fooled me into thinking I’d met the Dark One on the road over the toll bridge,” he sneered. “You humiliated me that night. Left me exposed in front of the woman I desired and stole her away from me.” He pushed off of Killian, freeing himself from the blade he’d become impaled on and cast a simpering smirk upon his opponent. “I bet you never imagined I’d actually find him. Find him, and _become_ him.”

“No,” Killian whispered. “That’s not possible.”

Rumple began to circle him as Killian’s mind frantically tried to make sense of the moment. The Dark One? He was a legend. A fable told to children in order to dissuade them from the company of strangers or venturing out too late at night. He wasn’t real. He couldn’t be.

“Oh, I assure you, I am real enough,” Rumple snickered, coming to stand before Killian once more. “Real and powerful and immortal.”

Killian felt the cold steel of Rumple’s blade penetrate his abdomen, the shock of its assault choking off any cry of pain that might have left his lips.

“Too bad the same can’t be said for you, dearie,” The Dark One whispered into his ear, twisting the blade so it would inflict maximum damage and ensure death to his victim.

Killian could feel his strength leaving him. Clutching at the Dark Ones vest as he began to sink towards the ground he spotted the hilt of a dagger tucked into the man’s belt. With the last of his strength, Killian unsheathed the dagger - the edge of which had a strange wave pattern - and plunged it deep into the demon’s gut.

Hitting the ground, Killian gasped staccatoed breaths as the life drained from his body. Only vaguely aware that his enemy had crumpled beside him, the last thing Killian saw before oblivion overtook him was a mass of darkness swirling overhead, dragging him into the black void of the beyond.


	2. Chapter 2

* * *

_Present Day, Storybrooke, Maine_

Leaves crunched under Deputy Emma Swan’s boots, despite how careful she was trying to be while searching the perimeter of the old farmhouse. A call had come into the station about a disturbance. Hunters who’d been setting up their blind for the weekend said they’d spotted a suspicious figure, so now here she was, traipsing about the abandoned farm on an unseasonably cold night instead of manning the phone at the station, or patrolling the quiet streets of Storybrooke in a warm squad car.

One day she was going to beat her brother in rock, papers, scissors, forcing him to join Sheriff Humbert on pointless calls searching after figments of other peoples’ imaginations.

Graham had insisted they split up when they’d arrived. The farm was extensive, with a dilapidated house, a storm cellar, and old barn rotting away on the property that had once been the sight of a Revolutionary War battle. The Storybrooke Police Department had fielded a number of calls regarding the property over the years, enough so that some people in town considered the place haunted. Just another colorful tale for the tourists.

Emma had never put much stock into any of the legends and fables her town had become famous for; Revolutionary War ghosts, curses, the Dark One. It was all nonsense. Something she had to remind Henry of on an ongoing basis as his fascination for such legends had continued to grow over the years. Still, she couldn’t really fault his obsession. Mary Margaret assured her that most kids fell down the occasional rabbit hole, becoming something of an expert on subjects they immersed themselves in, and having a notorious legend like, the Dark One, originating from your hometown seemed like the kind of thing that would spark the imagination of any twelve year old boy.

The piles of books were getting a tad out of hand, though.

The snap of a twig jolted Emma back into her current reality. Even if this was a wild goose chase, Emma couldn’t afford to get distracted with thoughts of her son and his other-worldly interests. Especially when she heard Graham call out _halt!_ to someone from the other side of the barn.

Emma jogged towards where she’d heard Graham’s command then broke into a full on sprint when his scream pierced the night.

“Graham!” she cried out, gun drawn and flashlight searching the area. “Graham! Where are you? Call out!”

Pained gurgles echoed in Emma’s ears when she turned the corner of the barn. Raising her gun, she trained it on the hooded figure standing in front of her boss and friend.

“Freeze!” she ordered.

A twittering giggle that sent shivers up Emma’s spine spilled from the man as he flicked his wrist with a simpering remark. “You first, dearie.”

Emma’s heart began to hammer wildly in her chest when she realized she couldn’t move, but she didn’t have time to wonder how he’d managed to paralyze her, not when she’d just become aware of the man’s other hand impossibly embedded in Graham’s chest cavity. With a sharp tug, he removed it and Emma knew she’d never forget the scream that left Graham’s lips as something glowed a bright red in his attacker’s palm.

Incapable of moving, even if she weren’t frozen in place, Emma had no choice but to watch as the figure reached into his own chest and removed a hardened lump of something black and rotten. He then pressed the object he’d taken from Graham into his chest and smiled wickedly as the sheriff crumpled to the ground before him. Clenching his fist, the blackened item disintegrated in his hand, ash pouring to the ground and scattering over Graham’s still form before the man dusted off his fingers and started to approach her.

A rush of cold wind swept between them, halting the perpetrators steps. His head snapped up as the clouds parted, the moonlight revealing a scaled quality to his skin that had Emma’s stomach rolling in revulsion. His eyes fell shut as if he were straining to listen, but the only sound stirring in Emma’s ears was the thundering of her pulse.

The man flicked his wrist once again, and impossibly vanished in a swirl of dark smoke. It took Emma several erratic heartbeats to realize she’d been freed from her paralysis, shock and disbelief making it impossible for her to move until she remembered Graham and stumbled towards him. Her knees slammed into the cold, hard earth and a sob caught in the back of her throat when her eyes met Graham’s vacant stare. Even knowing it was too late, Emma reached for her walkie and called for back-up.

“Officer down,” she called out with a lamenting strain choking her voice. “I repeat, officer down. Need an ambulance and back-up, over.”

~/~

The buzzing of the overhead fluorescent lights helped to drown out the not so hushed whispers of her fellow officers. It had taken every ounce of restraint Emma possessed to not move Graham’s body before the paramedics, followed by the coroner, arrived. She knew the scene had to be maintained, but all she’d wanted to do was gather Graham into her arms and hold him, or maybe just close his eyes so he could at least look at peace. Instead, she’d sat cross-legged beside him, the terrible scene playing itself over and over again in her mind until she was no longer present in the moment.

That’s how David and August had found her.

She remembered giving a vague description of the man who’d killed their sheriff, but hadn’t recounted the whole story yet. How could she when she could hardly believe it herself? A man with glittering, scaly skin - a detail she’d left out, even though it was possibly his most distinguishing feature - who could rip people’s hearts out and vanish in a plume of smoke? She knew what Henry would claim she saw, but there was no way it could be true. Legends weren’t real. They were myths, made up to serve as cautionary tales. No. There had to be an explanation for what she saw. She couldn’t confess to having witnessed Sheriff Humbert being murdered by the freaking Dark One on record; everyone would think her crazy.

No. There had to be another explanation, so until the coroner came back with the preliminary report of how Graham died, Emma was going to keep her mouth shut.

“Jefferson,” David greeted, snapping Emma’s attention to the front of the station at the mention of the coroner’s name. “Please, tell us you found something?”

“Oh, I found something, alright,” Jefferson muttered, making his way into the station and taking a seat. “Or rather… I didn’t.”

“What the hell does that mean?” David questioned, leaning over his desk with his palms braced against its surface.

“I examined Sheriff Humbert’s body and took the standard x-rays so my assistants could prepare him for the autopsy,” Jefferson paused, swallowing uneasily and wetting his lips before continuing on. “While I can’t give a definitive cause of death until after I perform the post-mortem, the x-rays showed something… odd. Something I can’t explain.”

Emma’s pulse raced in anticipation, feeling certain she knew what the x-rays showed that had the medical examiner looking so pale and confused. Before he could confirm Emma’s trepidations, a strange voice spoke up from one of the cell’s behind her.

“His heart was missing.” Grime covered fingers wrapped themselves around the bars, knuckles turning white from the fierce grip the man was applying to them. “His heart was missing, though there was no evident trauma to the body.”

Jefferson blanched, and the others stared suspiciously as he sputtered, “How d-did you know that?”

“What do you know about the Sheriff’s murder?” David demanded, approaching the bars before turning towards Emma. “Is this the guy, Emma? Did this guy kill Graham?”

The man straightened his posture, his tone full of offense. “I assure you, I did no such thi-”

“No. It couldn’t have been him,” August replied. “I found him wandering Main Street, clearly high as a kite. He took a swing at me when I tried to get him into the squad car to drop him off somewhere he could sleep it off, so I had to cuff him. I’d only got him in the car when Emma’s call for back-up came through. So, he can’t be our guy.”

“But you know who it was, don’t you?” Emma said, taking the man in for the first time since she’d entered the precinct in a complete daze.

Mud and debris caked his long hair, and smudges streaked his face. He was strangely dressed, as though he’d come from one the war reenactments the town regularly put on for tourists, and his clothes were also covered in layers of dirt that muted the details of his uniform. Disheveled as he was, what caught Emma’s attention the most was the way his eyes, a fathomless blue, swirling with hints of confusion, shock, and alarm, held hers as his Adam’s apple bobbed and the muscle at his jaw ticked before he gave her a solemn nod.

“Well?” David demanded. “Who is the sonofabitch?”

Emma stood and put herself between the man and her brother, holding David back with her hand pressed against his chest. “David,” she said calmly. “Let me take him to the interrogation room and question him while you talk with Jefferson. August should go back out on patrol, see if anyone’s seen a guy who matches my description.”

“Emma, we don’t know who this guy is or how he’s involved. I’m not gonna let you question him on your own.”

“He’ll be cuffed to the table,” she reminded him. “And I think he’ll talk to me.”

David put his hands on his hips and stared down at her with an evaluating gaze. “You know, you still haven’t told us what happened out there. I should take your statement and send you home, that’s procedure.”

“I know the protocols, David,” Emma replied shortly, crossing her arms over her chest. “But do I need to remind you that I have seniority here?”

David’s stance relaxed and his expression softened. “I’m only looking out for you, Emma. You’ve been through a trauma.”

“I’m fine.” Emma waved him off. She felt anything but fine, but was desperate for answers the muck covered stranger might provide. Answers that might help prove she wasn’t crazy. “And we need all hands on deck if we’re going to find Graham’s killer before anyone else gets hurt, so let's stop wasting time.”

David’s shoulders sagged and a resolved sigh expelled from his lungs. “You’re right. He’s all yours.”

With a fortifying breath, Emma turned and demanded the man’s hands. Reluctantly, he slipped them through the bars so Emma could cuff him before opening the cell and taking hold of his arm, marching him towards the interrogation room. With a second set of cuffs, she restrained him to the table then took a seat on the opposite side. A notepad and pen were at the ready, but her trembling hands testified to the actuality that she may not be. Undeterred, Emma took another deep breath and flicked her gaze up at the man who was observing her rather intently.

“Name,” she said in her most authoritative tone, tucking a section of her hair behind her ear when she bent her head back down to focus on the notepad in front of her.

“Captain Killian Jones,” the man replied, and for the first time Emma noted his accent.

“Where are you from, _Captain_ Jones?”

He shifted in his seat, the metal of the cuffs jingling as he ran his fingertips over the pads of his thumbs while he seemed to weigh his answer. “England, originally. Though, I’ve called Storybrooke home for most of my life.”

Emma set her pen down and laced her hands together, placing them on top of the notepad while she scrutinized her subject. She’d always had a gift of knowing when someone was lying to her, it’s why she was the one who usually did the interrogating, and while his statement didn’t set off her internal lie detector, she knew he couldn’t be telling her the truth.

“Funny. I don’t recall ever seeing you before.”

He ran his tongue over his lips then grimaced at what she assumed had to be an unpleasant taste of dirt flaking off them. “May I have some water, please?”

Emma reached behind her to where a few water bottles were kept on a credenza, and loosened the cap before passing it to him. His brows scrunched together and water nearly exploded from the plastic when he gave the bottle a squeeze. He looked at her sheepishly with an apology on his lips before leaning forward to take a sip, blinking several times when he pulled away to examine its contents with incredulous eyes.

If Emma didn’t know any better, she would have thought he’d never seen a disposable water bottle before.

“May I ask you something before you carry on with my interrogation?” Jones asked.

“I guess,” Emma hedged with caution as to what he might inquire about.

“What year is it?”

Emma’s brows shot up. “Excuse me?”

“The year,” he croaked before taking another sip of water. “What year is it, and which… which nation has authority over these lands?”

“Uh… it’s 2013, and last I checked Storybrooke, Maine was a part of the United States of America.”

A rush of air left his lungs and an almost disbelieving giddiness overtook his expression. “We won?”

“Excuse me?”

He didn’t seem to hear Emma’s question, evident by the color draining from his face as his eyes latched onto hers. “2013?” he parroted back to her with a pained expression of distress.

His head fell forward into his still cuffed hands, his fingers kneading his forehead, dislodging more dirt and debris.

“Hey,” Emma said, reaching out and placing a hand on his forearm. “Are you okay?” When he didn’t respond, she shook him a bit harder. “Hey. I need you to focus. Tell me who you really are and what you know about the guy who killed Sheriff Humbert.”

“You would never believe me,” he lamented into his palms.

Emma stood and leaned over the table so she could grasp his hands and pry them from his face. When his eyes met hers, she knew, by the way his lips parted and his brows arched, that he could see the desperation and camaraderie in her eyes.

“Try me,” she whispered.

When he nodded, she resumed her seat. Leaving the pen where it lay, she sat and listened to his tale, begging her ‘super power’ to refute what he was saying, but regardless of how impossible his words were, none of them rang false in her ears.

“Let me get this straight,” she said hollowly once he was finished. “You’re a two hundred and fifty year old Revolutionary War veteran who was killed on the battlefield outside of town by… the Dark One, who you suspect is responsible for the death of Sheriff Humbert, and you can prove all of this by showing me the grave you dug yourself out of at the cemetery.”

“I know you must think me a madman, but I swear it all to be true.”

Emma sat there a moment longer, her gaze fixed on an imperfection in the table they were sat at when her voice sounded in her ears before she was even aware she was speaking.

“He was dressed strangely. In a long hooded cloak that was as dirt encrusted as you are. His skin was…”

“Scaled,” he answered for her.

“His hand was already in Graham’s chest when I got there,” she continued on, still focused on the divot in the varnished surface of the table. “I raised my gun, but he… he made it so I couldn’t move. I was trapped in my own body, powerless.” Something warm and wet streaked down her cheek and it took her a moment to register the tears. She shouldn’t be showing weakness in front of a suspect, but Emma couldn’t help it. Whether any of this made sense or not, she believed Killian enough to trust him with her experience and needed to tell _someone_ what had happened. Maybe they were both crazy? “Even when Graham screamed in pain from having his heart removed and put into that… thing’s chest, I…” her voice broke against a sob, and Jones instinctively reached out, his motion was halted by the cuffs, but they couldn’t stop his words.

“Don’t do that to yourself, love,” he admonished in a soft tone of understanding. “I know those final, awful moments want to repeat themselves in your mind, but you don’t have to relive it. Come back to the here and now.”

Emma shook herself and scrubbed her sleeve down her face, taking a moment to collect herself before clearing her throat and facing Jones. “Right. The here and now.”

Emma chewed her lip, grasping for direction. What was she supposed to do now? If this Killian Jones was to be believed (and she really couldn’t believe how willing she was to take him at his word. Though, watching your friend’s heart being torn from his chest was rather compelling evidence), then they were facing forces far beyond herself and the might of the Storybrooke police department.

“So…” Killian drawled, whipping her attention back to him. “You believe my tale?”

Releasing the grip her teeth had on her lip, Emma blew out a breath and admitted,” I don’t know what to believe.” She leaned back in her chair and crossed her arms over her chest. “But I don’t know how to explain what I saw, either, so… I guess I’m willing to take a leap of faith.”

Killian’s shoulders sagged in relief and he gave her a grateful smile. “Thank you, Emma.”

“Deputy Swan,” she corrected, figuring he knew her name from when David had said it before. “Just because I’m willing to take a chance on you, doesn’t mean I can just let you go.” She stood and removed the cuff keys from her pocket, unlocking the ones that had him restrained to the table but keeping the other set firmly clasped around his wrists. “I need to corroborate your story.”

“I understand,” he said, waiting for her gesture to stand.

Cracking open the door, Emma made sure David and August were still occupied before signalling to Jones to follow her out. Her finger was pressed against her lips, indicating he should do so quietly. He did both without question, but when they made it out the backdoor to her awaiting bug parked in the back lot, he hesitated a moment before climbing in after she opened the passenger side door for him.

“What?”

“I, uh…” he began tentatively. “I’m not sure how confident I am in these horseless carriages. The speed with which your fellow officer was able to muster in another similar vessel seemed… rather _unnatural_ for land travel.”

Emma stared dumbfounded for a moment before remembering his confession of being from the eighteenth century. She could only imagine how unsettling it would be to wake up to things like electricity, indoor plumbing, cars, planes, cell phones, and other modern conveniences. Still, the prospect that he was spooked by her vintage yellow bug was rather amusing.

~/~

Killian led Deputy Swan through the rows of headstones, not entirely sure of the accuracy of his direction. Things had been a bit of a blur once he’d managed to extricate himself from his coffin, but he did recall the looming mausoleum that stood at the center of the cemetery, and therefore based their trek on its position relative to where he’d stood once topside.

Frenzy continued to thrum in his veins, its frantic rush keeping him from succumbing to the overwhelming barrage of oddities that kept assaulting him. Vessels capable of traveling over land at speeds he’d only ever experienced at full sail on the waves, architecture and furnishings reflecting designs he found strange and off putting, to say nothing of the fashions he’d seen among officers of the law who did not even dress in proper uniforms that might denote their station or authority. How else was he to know the man captaining the vessel with the blinding pulses of red and blue was a member of the community’s militia?

A militia that not only allowed the inclusion of women, but gave them leave to rise to positions of authority within the ranks. Perhaps, things were not all bad in this foreign landscape? Some of the bravest and cleverest people he’d known during his years of service had been women. Whether they used their positions to act as spies for the Sons of Liberty, or rose up to meet the challenge of labor and hardship in order to keep businesses and farms running while the men were away, Killian had seen women with more mettle than most men possessed in the face of death.

Women like the one currently beside him, with her free flowing blonde hair and tight trousers he had to keep his eyes from wandering over, focusing instead on the illumination of her flameless torch.

It had been clear she’d witness some sort of atrocity when the other men had brought her into the prison. Her face had been a ghastly white and her eyes void of any real comprehension of her surroundings. He was fairly certain she hadn’t even been aware of his presence until he’d spoken, but once their eyes had met he’d felt the connection surge between them. A bond two people shared when they found themselves caught in the same current others could not distinguish from their vantage point within the tide. He’d known immediately what horrors she’d witnessed, and despite the pragmatic nature he somehow inherently knew she typically viewed the world by, she had accepted his tale by virtue of their shared experience in both having faced the Dark One.

Killian’s reflections were paused by Deputy Swan’s arm jutting out in front of him, which also halted his steps.

“Is that it?” she asked in a hushed tone of dread, the glow of her flashlight, as she’d called it, sweeping over a disturbed mound of earth.

“Aye,” he replied, trying to choke back the helpless feelings he’d experienced while trapped below ground, and the anxiety he’d been attempting to hold at bay when the beam rested on his headstone, once again testifying to the passage of time that had occurred whilst his body had been interned.

Deputy Swan crouched down in front of his tombstone, her fingers tracing the engraving of his name and the years that marked his life. “It’s true,” she exhaled. “You _actually_ dug yourself out of your own grave.” She stood and faced him, eyes wide and full of questions. “How?”

“I would rather not relive the experience through its recounting, if it is all the same to--”

“No, I mean. How are you here? Alive? After all this time? What… What do you remember from when you first… woke up?”

Killian thought back to those first few awful moments; the stale air in his lungs, the tight feel of crumbling wood pressing in from all sides, the taste of dirt on his tongue, and his name…

“Someone called my name,” he told her upon remembering. “I heard my name being said in a voice that was not my own, but… how would I have heard such a thing from inside there?” He gestured down to the narrow hole he’d wormed his way through. A shudder rolled through him at the memory, forcing him to take a step back and turn away, his breath catching painfully in his chest.

“Hey,” she said, soothingly while placing a hand on his shoulder. “It’s okay. Just breathe.” Once he’d taken a few steadying breaths, she inquired, “Did you see anyone once you were… out?”

Killian’s head whipped towards the mausoleum up the hill. “There were children,” he recounted. “Three or four? Boys, I think. I chased after them, but lost them when I reached the strange road over yonder.”

Something in her expression told him she was not surprised to hear that revelation.

“You know who they were?”

“I’m pretty sure I know who one of them was, yeah,” she muttered, leaving his side to trudge up the slope towards the crypt.

“Who?”

“My son,” she called out over her shoulder.

Killian blanched then followed. “Your son?” He hadn’t noticed a wedding band, or was that a practice that had gone out of fashion? “Does he typically frequent cemeteries at night?”

Hands braced on her hips, she looked up at the etching above the door and Killian’s gaze followed. There was something familiar about the name displayed there - CASSIDY - but he couldn’t quite remember the significance.

“This is his father’s family’s mausoleum,” she informed him. “He comes here sometimes to feel close to his dad.”

The doors creaked, the hinges binding from lack of use as she entered with Killian fast on her heels. “My condolences,” he offered on a reverent breath.

An undignified snort echoed of the stones. “He isn’t dead,” she stated with a hard edge. “At least, I don’t think he is. We haven’t seen or heard from him since he took off a few years ago.”

“He abandoned you?” Killian’s tone was equally hard, long buried emotions infusing themselves within the question.

“It’s not like that,” she said in the man’s defense. “Neal and I were never married. We were practically kids ourselves when Henry came along unexpectedly, and he…”

Her words trailed off and a tint of pink settled over her cheeks, as if she’d realized how scandalous the tale must sound to him. It was, but he’d garnered enough about this strange time he now found himself in to know social mores had changed, and besides… it wasn’t as if he didn’t have scandalous skeletons of his own.

Clearing her throat, she said, “Neal used to bring Henry here to tell him all about his family history. Colonel Cassidy, who the mausoleum was built for, was a hero in the battle of… um,” she wet her lips and gave him a hesitant look, “the battle you died in.”

Recognition sparked into remembrance. “Aye. I remember Col. Cassidy. Good man. If recollection serves, he was from Boston. He did not return home after the war?”

“No, he, um…” Her brows scrunched as she pulled the information from the recesses of her mind. “He met a local woman. A pregnant widow. Her husband died in the battle and they married before the baby was born.” The circle of light swung over to the wall at their left and landed on a worn plaque. “That’s her.”

Killian’s heart stopped at the sight of the name, all the air rushing from his lungs as he sank to his knees before the marker.

“Killian?” He heard the deputy say behind him. “What is it? Are you..”

With his eyes fixed on the name, the lines of each letter blurring in his tear filled vision, Killian barely registered Swan’s kneeling form beside him.

“Who was she to you?” she asked on little more than a whisper, the trepidation quivering beneath her words betraying the fact she already had an inkling.

“My wife,” Killian answered, a tear slipping past his lashes and catching on the grime that still covered his face.

He reached up and gently ran his fingertips over her name - Milah Jones Cassidy - and swallowed back the myriad of emotions the sight of it brought forth. Despair over the fact he would never see her again; never hear her laugh or see her smile. Guilt that he hadn’t even given her much of a thought since being resurrected until faced with her passing. Relief that she had seemed to find some measure of happiness and stability after losing him and…

Shock.

Utter astonishment as a detail Swan had casually mentioned fully developed in his comprehension. The widow Cassidy had married had been… pregnant?

Before he could internalize that revelation, Swan reached out and covered the hand still resting on Milah’s marker. “I’m so sorry, Killian.”

The solemn reverie of her softened tone was marred by a grating sound that preceded the shifting of plaque beneath their fingers. Each of them pulled their hand away and one side of the marker dropped, exposing a shallow cavern behind it. Killian felt something ripple over his skin and a desperation took hold of him. Without any conscience prompting on his part, his hand shot back into the space, searching every inch of the cavity and finding it as empty as it appeared. Once again, he wrenched his hand back, looking it over with a mixture of confusion and dread as a clawing desire settled itself deep within him.

He wanted, _needed_ , whatever had been kept behind Milah’s marker, and he would do _anything_ necessary to acquire it.

“Swan,” he croaked. “I think it best we find your son. Now.”

~/~

Killian became more agitated the closer they got to their destination. Swan’s mood wasn’t faring much better, with each attempt made to “call” her son resulting in no response from the lad. When they turned the corner that led to a row of houses on a dead end street, something unsettling began to stir within Killian. A sense of anticipation and an impulse of possessive need trembled through his fingertips, and when they exited the vessel Killian stopped short when he swore he’d heard whispered voices, like a siren’s call luring him towards Swan’s abode.

“Do you hear that?” Killian asked, stalling Emma’s action of unlocking her door.

“Hear what?”

Killian shook his head and pushed against the voices. “Nevermind,” he said, making his way up the steps and following Swan through the door.

“Henry!” Swan called out. “Henry, where are you?”

“Mom!” a young voice called out after a door slammed from the upper floor and quick thumps of footfalls made their way to the stairs. “Mom! You’re never going to believe what I--”

The boy had just skipped off the last step when he caught sight of Killian and blanched. “Who are you?”

“Henry, this is Killian,” Swan supplied, approaching her boy as his eyes widened and all color drained from his face.

“K-Killian Jones?” he stammered.

“Aye,” Killian affirmed, taking a step towards the boy, but stopping when the action made the boy skitter back. “How did you know that, lad?”

The boy swallowed heavily then removed the hand Killian realized he’d been hiding behind his back, revealing a scallop-edged blade dagger.

“Where did you get that?” Swan shouted, causing the boy to flinch.

“Um… the cemetery?” he replied sheepishly before his eyes flicked up to Killian who had somehow managed to find himself right in front of the boy without even realizing he’d moved.

A covetous hiss rippled through Killian’s mind, urging him to get the dagger from the boy, but before he could demand the lad hand it over, awareness skittered over his skin. They weren’t alone.

“I’ll take that, if you please,” a familiar voice declared, snapping the trio’s attention back towards the door.

Swan gasped and pushed Henry behind her as Killian used his body to shield them both from the Dark One who was stepping over the threshold.

“That blade does not belong to you, boy. Hand it over, and no harm shall befall you.”

“You’re lying,” Killian accused between grit teeth. “Don’t listen to him, lad.”

“Y-You’re the Dark One,” Henry said in a fear laced tone. “T-This is your dagger?”

By way of answer, Rumple flicked his wrist and a choking sound caused Killian’s heart to cease in his chest. Behind him, Swan’s hands were frantically grasping at her neck, as if trying to pry unseen hands from choking the life out of her.

“The blade for your mother’s life,” the demented demon giggled.

Killian peered at the lad over his shoulder, expecting to see terror and tears. His brows pulled together at the expression on the boy’s face. While he was clearly scared for his mother’s life, he also looked as though he were working out a puzzle in his mind. Killian could see the moment the solution presented itself by the triumphant gleam in his eye and the exhilaration that spread across his face.

“That means it controls you!” the boy exclaimed, holding the dagger out before him. “I command you to go back where you came from, Dark One!”

A swirl of red began to envelop Killian. In his periphery he saw, with a great measure of relief, the invisible hold around Swan’s neck released itself, sending her into a fit of coughs as she dropped to her knees. The reverberating sound suddenly stopped, replaced by silence as he was fully engulfed in the crimson cloud and lifted off his feet. Less than a moment later, Killian found himself flat on his back with a dreadfully familiar taste hitting the back of his throat. Earth, petrichor, wood, death. Reaching out his worst fears were confirmed.

He was back in his coffin.

“Bloody hell,” he cursed. “Not again.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am hoping to update this fic every two weeks. I'll be alternating updates between this and my csmm fic, which drops next Sunday. 
> 
> As always, all my love and thanks to Salem (itrustyoutokillme/artistic-writer) for her beta services!


	3. Chapter 3

Part Three:

Killian focused on keeping his breathing even. He’d made his way out of his grave once before, he could damn well do it again. He just needed to keep his end goal at the forefront of his mind. When his initial panic subsided, he could feel his resolve snap into place, but before he mustered any movement toward the shaft leading topside, he found himself engulfed in billows of red smoke once more.

When the magic cleared (for he had no more allusions regarding its meaning, what with the horrible truth making itself evident despite his mind’s fervent denials), Killian was once again stood beside his headstone, facing the monolith anchored within the center of the graveyard. Bracing himself against the worn stone of his marker, Killian drew in a few deep breaths as he came to terms with all that had transpired since his waking, and the reality he could no longer refute.

He was the Dark One. Somehow, someway, he had become the vileness he’d fought with in those moments before his supposed death.

With the acceptance of that fact, a sickening sort of satisfaction undulated within his psyche and an unnatural current rippled its way towards his fingertips. He balled his fists, refusing to give the impulse the satisfaction of his compliance. A shrill admonishment skittered across his comprehension, but he batted it away. He would not allow this parasite to take hold. He would not bow to it as his master. He did not want, nor did he have need of, the power tantalizing him from the deep recess of his being.

What he needed was answers.

How had this happened? How could he be the Dark One whilst Rumple still lived? Why had the dagger been hidden behind Milah’s marker all this time? 

Killian had scarcely been aware he’d moved from his gravesite as questions continued to swirl through his head, until he found himself standing before the great doors of the mausoleum. As unlikely as it was he would find answers among the dead, he couldn’t stop himself from entering. Couldn’t stop himself from kneeling before his wife’s plaque, securing it into its proper position as best he could while heartache gripped his chest like a vice.

He did not fault Milah for what she’d had to do after his passing, and only hoped it had not all been solely out of desperation and necessity. The war had caused his devotion to wane and seeds of doubt as to whether they were truly suited for one another had begun to sprout, yet Killian had endeavored to be a decent husband. Milah deserved that much, at least. Despite the changes battle had wrought upon him, hardening him and eradicating the folly of his youth, forever transforming him into a wholly different man than Milah had vowed her life to, Killian would never have shirked his commitment to her. He would have undertaken the duty of husband and father with the same determined honor he had his captaincy, shouldering whatever life the fates had deemed to bestow upon them.

He doubted either of them could have ever imagined a fate such as this.

“I am so sorry, my love,” he murmured into the quiet. “I should have been a better husband. I should have been there for you and the…” No. He couldn’t bring himself to think about that right now. Shaking the thought from his mind, he continued on, “I hope he made you happy, Milah. I hope he was everything I was not, and that you lacked for nothing. I hope he… I hope he loved you as I was never able. Loved you in the way you deserved to be loved. Above all, I hope you are at peace.”

Killian knew he should be making his way back to Swan’s house, but could not deny himself another few moments with which to say his good-byes. Perhaps it was simply his own need to be alleviated of his guilt, even still, with each passing beat of his heart he could almost feel Milah’s soothing presence, assuring him his hopes had come to pass and all was forgiven between them.

Standing, Killian straightened his uniform, useless as it was given its current state, and turned to take his leave. A figure hovering within the doorway made him stop short. His hand instinctively grasped for the hilt of his sword, though he knew it no longer rested on his hip as it had been confiscated by the officer hours before.

Rumple stepped into the mausoleum. His eyes flicked to the plaque behind Killian and a wicked grin stretched across his grotesque features.

“How’s Milah?” he taunted, the words harkening back to their duel on the blood soaked battleground. “Come, come,” he prompted on a sinister giggle. “Answer as you did before. It’ll be the truth this time.”

“What do you want?” Killian demanded. Flickers of fury licked up his spine and shot down his arms, urging him to call upon the potential lying in wait beneath his skin. Once more, Killian refused to oblige.

“Why, I want the same thing you do, dearie,” the demon twittered. “Answers.”

Rumple took a few predatory steps forward, forcing Killian to counter them, just as he had that fateful day.

“Your presence here does shed a bit of light on things, though,” Rumple mused. “I thought it was my heart that was keeping me from drawing upon the fullness of my magic, but its power remained diminished even after I replaced it with another.”

Killian grit his teeth at the confession, anger sparking between his fingertips in deep shimmers of crimson as he considered the horror Swan had been forced to watch. The display pulled a sneer from Rumple’s lips.

“It seems, however, you are the cause of my malady. No matter, once I retrieve the dagger from the boy, I’ll have my full powers once again.”

“Oh?” Killian questioned, buying himself time to formulate a plan as he cast about for some scrap of knowledge that might assist him. “How do you figure the dagger will help?”

Another grating laugh trickled from the back of the Dark One’s throat. “It will allow me to kill you once and for all, of course. Kill you, and knit the Darkness back together so we can have our fun once more.” 

Killian blanched even as the truth of the statement settled over him. Memories of him ramming the Dark’s One dagger into the demon’s gut even as he felt the life drain from his own body bloomed in his mind. Is that how it had happened? Had the Darkness been forced to divide itself, rend itself in two as its potential hosts lay dying? Killian had always prided himself on being a survivor, but a self-preservation, the likes of which he’d never experienced before, came roaring to the surface, compelling him to take the evil imp by the edges of his cloak.

“You are not going anywhere near the boy,” Killian growled. “I’ll see to it you never again lay hands on my dagger.” Flinching, Killian released Rumple, startled by his own possessive vehemence. The reaction quickly melted away when he cast his eyes upon his foe and saw something flash within his black eyes. “You’ve already tried,” he deduced. Another twisting of wrath over the creature's features had Killian smiling as he crowed, “You tried to go back before coming here, but the boy bested you again, didn’t he? Barred you somehow.”

“The child is clever.” Rumpled shrugged with an air that was a little too devil may care. “Too bad he has to die.”

“Over my dead body,” Killian vowed, which only made the Dark One smirk.

“That’s the plan, dearie.”

Killian advanced, prompted by his urgings to strangle the breath out his nemesis, but was thwarted by the pull of something he could not seem to ignore. For the third time, a mist of ox blood magic wrapped itself around his body and transported him on its caress.

~/~

Emma heard her brother gasp when the smoke manifested itself in her living room, but she kept her gun trained at its very center. Killian’s appearance forced a sigh of relief to collapse her shoulders, letting the sights of her weapon fall to the floor. She had only a moment to step between him and the instinctively drawn barrel of her brother’s gun before David got his finger on the trigger. The cry of protest from her and Henry’s lips was drowned out by the concussion of the firearm, and Emma saw the look of horror on her brother's face before she was swung around, fully enveloped in Killian’s arms as the impact was somehow absorbed by his solid form behind her.

“Uncle David, don’t shoot!” Henry hollered.

“Are you alright, love?” Killian asked.

“Get your hands off my sister!” David roared.

“Enough!”

Emma wrangled herself out of Killian’s arms and forced him to turn around, searching for where the bullet must have hit him.

“He’s fine, mom,” Henry professed. “He’s immortal. Nothing can hurt him except the dagger.”

Emma felt Killian stiffen, his attention landing on Henry, and more acutely, the Dark One dagger still clutched in her son’s hand.

“Immortal? A dagger? Will someone please tell me what the hell is going on here?” David continued to bellow.

“I would like an explanation as well,” Killian said. “How did I end up back here?”

“I summoned you,” Henry answered. Despite David’s attempts to stop him, he made his way over to where Emma was still running her hands over Killian’s thick wool coat in search of an entry wound that was not there. “Like I did before, when I read the names off the dagger after finding it in the mausoleum.

“Then how is it only I have arrived and not… the other one?”

“Because I summoned you. Killian Jones. Not the Dark One or Rumplestiltskin.”

Henry held out the dagger and Emma knew Killian could see the names etched on the blade as clearly as she could. On one side was the name Killian Jones, and on the other, Rumplestiltskin. Something like a snort resonated from Killian before she heard him mutter, “I knew it. Rumple von Stiltskin my arse.”

“When my original command sent you both away, I figured it might have been because I used the title Dark One and not your names, so when he came back,” Killian tensed again, his hands balling into fists and his teeth audibly grinding together. “I commanded Rumplestiltskin to leave the house and never return. When you didn’t come back, I was afraid I might have gotten it wrong and accidentally made it to where you couldn’t come here either, so I tried summoning just you.”

Despite her shredded nerves, a sense of pride swelled within Emma; one their freshly summoned guest seemed to share.

“You are a clever lad, aren’t you?” Killian praised. 

Stepping forward, an action that had David’s gun twitching back up until Emma shot him a thunderous look, Killian reached out his hand and introduced himself. “Killian Jones, at your service, my boy.”

“Henry Swan-Cassidy.” 

After giving the proffered hand a quick shake, Henry’s eyes swept over the disheveled man. With the cocked brow and cheeky smirk Emma had become more and more accustomed to seeing from her son as he drew closer to puberty, Henry quipped, “Why are you dressed like that?”

With an amused tone of indignation, Killian shot back, “Why are you dressed like that?”

“Okay,” Emma interrupted, knowing they all needed to take a moment to regroup. “Henry, I need you to go grab your Dark One books from upstairs then get ready for bed. David, can you please go back to your house and bring Killian some clothes he can change into?” Grabbing Killian by the arm she began to lead him towards the stairs as her brother began sputtering behind her.

“What are you gonna do?”

“I’m going to introduce Killian to the wonders of indoor plumbing.”

Protests broke out all at once.

”Swan, we don’t have time…”

“I’m not leaving you alone…”

“Mom! I can help…”

“Look!” she shouted, finally reaching the end of her rope. “In the last few hours, Killian has woken up and dug himself out of his own grave, only to find himself in the wrong century, and his wife dead. Henry has had to fend off the Dark One… twice. David nearly shot me, and lost a close a friend I witnessed be brutally murder by an entity that was supposed to only exist in legend, so I think we are all entitled to take a beat and reset before planning our next move.”

Sufficiently contrite, Killian and Henry relented with hushed murmurs of, “Aye, love. You’re right,” and “Yes, ma’am,” respectively. She could tell by David’s demeanor that he was going to take more convincing.

“Henry, will you take Killian to the bathroom upstairs and start showing him…” she gestured vaguely, unsure of where she had even planned to begin in educating Killian on the conveniences of a modern bathroom. It didn’t seem to matter, a second later Henry had Killian following him up the steps, their ascent scrutinized by a still wary David.

“You’re just gonna let Henry be alone with the guy?”

“Henry has the dagger,” she reminded him. “He literally has it all under control.”

“How can you be this glib?” David whisper-shouted at her. “This... calm?”

A slightly hysterical laugh erupted from Emma’s lungs. “I am anything but calm,” she told him, “but I can’t afford to fall apart right now. We have a killer on the loose, one with supernatural abilities, and like it or not we need Killian’s help. So please,” she begged. “I know you are just as freaked out and confused as I am, but I need you to get me a change of clothes for him, so he’ll blend in a little better, then go back to the precinct and help August hold down the fort. I promise to keep you in the loop, but until I can question Killian and get more answers, this is all I know to do.”

David’s eyes softened at the sight of her tears, and he pulled her into his arms, cradling the back of her head like he always did.

“Okay, Emma. Okay,” he relented, begrudgingly. “I’ll go get him some clothes then get back to August.” Pulling away he held her gaze and asked, “What do you want me to tell him?”

Emma swallowed as she considered the question. She trusted August, but couldn’t help shake the feeling that the fewer who knew about all this, the better.

“Tell him I took Killian to Whale and had him admitted for a psych eval, then came home to check on Henry.” Guilt bubbled within her gut at the lie, but David’s agreeing nod helped make the churning manageable. 

“Okay. I’ll keep you posted on any tips that might come our way about… you know who.”

Emma snorted. The Dark One wasn’t Voldemort, but she understood her brother’s reluctance in not wanting to give voice to a name that could be summoned at will. After he left, Emma sagged against the doorframe steeling herself for the long, uncertain night ahead.

~/~

Killian descended the stairs feeling cleaner than he ever had in his life. The lad had been quite helpful in demonstrating how the various fixtures worked, as well as appropriating him items for his own personal hygiene. After he’d left Killian to his own devices, several moments had been spent flicking switches, turning knobs, and marveling (with a modest amount of fretful unease) at the seemingly never ceasing amount of hot water raining down from the shower head. 

Even longer moments were spent simply standing beneath its downpour, allowing the heat and pounding pressure to strip away the caked on grime and gripping tension. Now, dressed in the provided garments - a strange set of undergarments, a pair of the softest flannel he’d ever felt, and some sort of tunic like shirt that fit a might snug - he wasn’t sure his attire was altogether appropriate for the mixed company of a single woman and her son, but Killian was willing to put propriety aside for the moment.

The creak of the last step drew Swan’s attention, and Killian noted the astonished look she gave him as her eyes traveled from his bare feet to the still sopping lengths of his hair, dampening the shoulders of his shirt from where the ends brushed against the fabric. Smoothing his hair back with both hands, he cursed the lack of a tie back, assuming her raised brows and parted lips were in response to his disheveled appearance.

“Apologies, love,” he offered. “I know my appearance is still somewhat unseemly, and not all together--”

“No, no,” she interjected. “You, uh… you look fine.”

A soft pink began to tint her cheeks, prompting Killian to cock his head to one side. His brow arched up his forehead as he considered he may have misinterpreted her expression, then a heated flush of his own rose up his neck when he took in the sight of her.

Seated, cross legged in a pair of the shortest breeches he’d even seen in his life, Swan’s legs were indecently bare with a long expanse of creamy flesh on display. His groin tightened in response, forcing him to whirl around before he even had a chance to appreciate the manner of undress exhibited on the upper portion of her body, not that he ought to be appreciating it at all.

“Killian? Are you okay?”

“Aye,” he replied in a slightly strained tone. “I should have announced myself before descending, I apologize for catching you in a state of… déshabillé.”

“A state of what?”

Reaching up, Killian scratched behind his ear while peeking over his shoulder at the sound of her movement. It was even worse when she stood. The outline of her form clearly presented by the cut of the garments, and the way the thin fabrics clung to her curves made his blood feel hot in his veins, the heat collecting at the tips of his ears and stirring below his waist.

Her eyes widened when she finally surmised the cause of his discomfort, an apology falling from her lips as she snatched a blanket from the back of her settee to wrap around herself.

“I didn’t even think about how you wouldn’t be used to seeing a woman dressed in shorts and tank top. I’m so sorry I made you uncomfortable.”

“No, Swan,” he turned and took a step towards her. “I am sorry if I have made you feel uncomfortable in your own home. I confess, to see a woman showing so much skin is… a shock, but I’ve also experienced enough of this new reality to know things are much changed.” He let out a deep sigh, his shoulders falling a bit in defeat. “I suppose it is something I will have to become accustomed to.” Glancing up, he offered her a small smile in the manner of an olive branch. “I have much to learn.”

Emma reached out and took hold of his hand, giving it a supportive squeeze. “And we’ll do everything we can to help you.” With a small tug, she prompted him forward until they were both seated. “You can start with these.”

Resting upon the low table in front of them were a number of volumes. Killian deduced they must the books Emma had asked Henry to retrieve.

“Henry says, according to some of the legends, Dark Ones don’t sleep, so he thought you might want to spend the night catching up on the past two hundred and fifty years.”

She deposited one of the large texts onto his lap. Across the top was written, American History, with the image of a cracked bell beneath it.

“This is Henry’s history book for school,” she told him. “It’ll give you a quick overview. The others,” she gestured to remaining books, “are his collection of books referencing the Dark One and the various legends told about him over the centuries. Maybe they’ll be able to tell us something that can help.”

Killian swallowed heavily. Ever since he’d found himself wandering aimlessly down roads that had once been so familiar to him, he’d felt an overwhelming sense of being thoroughly untethered, as though he were cast adrift with no hope of ever finding his bearings again. Yet, here he was. Little did Swan know how much her and her lad’s offer of knowledge would help to anchor him. In that moment, she was like his own personal lighthouse, a beacon guiding him to firm shores past the rocky shoals of the unknown and unfamiliar. 

Words caught in the back of his throat, his mouth opening and closing without a single utterance making its way off his tongue. She must have sensed his gratitude, offering him a soft smile before bidding him goodnight, assuring him they would talk more in the morning after she’d had some sleep. 

He finally found his voice when she was halfway to the stairs.

“Before you retire for the evening,” he called out to her. “I wondered if you might be willing to engage in a brief bit of intercourse with me?”

Swan’s head snapped around, her posture bone straight. A pink tint that was becoming increasingly more rogue, crept up her neck as a vexed sort of sound expelled from her chest.

“Excuse me?” 

Killian knew immediately he must have said something wrong, but could not fathom what it was. “Intercourse?” he repeated with hands raised in supplication. “I realize such a request might still be seen as rather untoward. I am unsure as to the protocols of unsupervised conversation between a man and woman in this day and age, but I have questions I had hoped you could answer, and since we’ve already spent considerable time unchaperoned...” 

For several moments, Emma’s only response was to stare at him through a series of rapid blinks before her stance relaxed and her mouth finally snapped closed. “You mean… you're asking me to stay and… talk?”

“Aye,” he affirmed, his brows pinched, still not understanding where their disconnect stemmed from. “As I said, just a brief bit of intercourse.”

An amused and somewhat awkward huff preceded her movement back towards the settee. “Yeah, um… that’s not really what intercourse means anymore.”

Curious, Killian cocked his head. “Oh? What meaning does it now hold?”

Another rush of heat swept across her cheeks, and she waved off his question. “Nevermind.” Tucking her legs beneath her, she adjusted the blanket around herself then turned her attention to him and asked, “What did you want to ask me?”

Killian wet his lips and tried to distract himself from the fresh swell of attraction cresting within his chest. She was a beautiful lass, there was no denying it, but he had not the inclination to fixate his attentions upon it at this juncture. 

He had a more pressing matter he wished to pursue.

“When you spoke of Col. Cassidy, and the widow he married, you mentioned she was...” Killian cleared the tightness from his throat, but his next words still only managed to come out in a whisper. “With child?”

Emma began to nod thoughtfully until she suddenly froze. Her gaze flicked up to his, a gasp of comprehension escaping her lungs as she breathed, “Your child.” Grasping for his hand, her eyes bounced between his. “You didn’t know?”

Killian shook his head. “She had referenced in her last letter that she had news to share with me when I managed to gain shore leave, but… no. I never imagined it was news of a child. I did not have much time to consider what the news was before duty demanded my attention.”

They sat quietly for several agonizing beats of his heart until he mustered the courage to ask, “Do you know what it was? Boy or girl? Did it… did it live?”

Releasing his hand, Emma grabbed something that had been laying amongst the stacks of books. Rectangular in shape and roughly the size of a small chest, though much shallower and unable to contain anything more than a single piece of parchment, she lifted the lid and rows of letters, numbers, and symbols became visible within.

“What is that?”

Emma opened her mouth then scrunched her brows at him, clearly trying to figure out how to explain the strange object.

“I’m not even sure I know how to explain it to you,” she confessed. “It’s, uh… called a laptop. It’s a type of computer and…” The bewildered expression on his face had her shaking her head. “All you need to know right now is that it let’s me access the town’s records without having to go to the records office in person. With it, I can search for information about your child.”

A number of questions swirled through Killian’s mind, and he was more than a little dubious as to how she would gain the information they sought, but all of that left him as he watched her fingers move over the letters in order to call forth that which she needed onto the inside of the lid.

“Storybrooke has always kept thorough records, dating back to even before your time, so if we can just narrow down a potential birth month and year, we should be able to find something.”

“I had shore leave four months prior to the battle,” he informed her. “It was the last time we were… intimate.”

Emma entered a range of dates roughly five months after the battle. “Okay, then. All we need to do is scroll through for any mentions of Jones, and--”

“Cassidy,” he corrected. “It is… was customary for children of remarried widows to be given the step-father’s name.”

Rows of names and dates passed over the screen at a speed Killian had difficulty following. Anticipation ached in his chest when Emma paused, her finger skimming across the surface until it stopped and she looked up at him.

“Here,” she exhaled, drawing his gaze to where her finger rested. 

Beside it was the entry they’d been looking for, and all the air rushed from Killian’s chest when he uttered, “A son?” Clinging to some semblance of composure, he choked back the emotion burning his throat and stinging his eyes. “I had a son.”

No longer able to stay the flood threatening to overtake him, Killian turned away in order to shield Emma from his weakness. Hot tears had just started to spill over when he felt her place a hand on his shoulder, encouraging him back to her. 

When he resolutely refused to face her, a second hand ran over the back of his hair, an attempt to soothe him as she reminded, “Remember when you said you’d have to become accustomed to how things have changed?” When she lightly prodded his shoulder again, he gave in and faced her once more. Moving her hand from his shoulder, she cupped his face. “Nowadays, men don’t have to hide their emotions. You have suffered a terrible loss, Killian. It’s okay to grieve.” 

He might have been able to stay strong if it weren’t for the tears shimmering in her own eyes, which held within them a measure of her own sorrow and pleading.

“So have you, love,” he said, remembering she too had lost someone that day.

Gathering one another in their arms, the dams of exhausted fortitude broke. Now was not the time for mettle or bravery, instead they found comfort in each other’s vulnerability. In the touch of a hand running along the ridge of a back, in the grip fisted in a shirt, in the brush of a cheek next to another’s, and in the muffled sounds of anguish poured into the slope of a neck. When at last weeping had been traded for the tranquility that only came through such an emotional release, they pulled away from one another with understanding and gratitude.

“I know you must be greatly fatigued, Swan, but…”

“Still in need of a bit of intercourse?” she said teasingly, though, he could detect a note of suggestion within her tone. He was going to have to figure out the term's current connotation.

“I wondered if this marvel of yours,” he said, indicating to the laptop she’d move back to the table, “could tell me anything more about him? Anything about the life he led?” When she picked up the device and settled back on her lap his guilt rose. “We do not have to right now, if you are too tired. It can wait until--”

“No,” she stated, gazing up at him with determination. “It can’t.”

The night stretched on as Emma cleverly navigated her way through various sites in order to follow the path of Killian’s descendants. His son, KJ, had stayed in Storybrooke and had a family of his own. He and his only son had founded a shipping company that, according to Swan, still had a warehouse standing down by the docks, preserved by the town’s historical society. The company had been an anchor for his progeny, mooring them to Storybrooke for generations as the business passed from father to son. 

It was when they arrived during the time of the Second World War that Killian felt a change come over Emma. With all of the KJ & Son Shipping’s men off to war, the business had closed and never reopened. After the war, the surviving lad, having no interest in shipping, had chosen instead to open a pawn shop in town. This piece of news had Emma’s breath hitching, and a soft Oh, my god, to fall from her lips.

“Swan? What is it? What’s wrong?” Gently, Killian grasped her chin and encouraged her to look at him. “Love, you’ve gone as white as a fresh sail!”

“I…” she floundered. “You wondered if any of your descendents were still around?”

“Aye,” he replied, anxiety fluttering within his chest that she may have found evidence of such a thing. “Are you saying there are?”

Emma nodded. “Henry,” she exhaled breathlessly. “Killian… you’re my son’s seven times great-grandfather.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Part Four:**

Emma’s gaze blurred around the crack in the plaster above her bed, her mind spinning with a myriad of thoughts she couldn’t quite get a handle on. Graham was dead, the Dark One was real, there was a nearly two hundred and eighty year old man downstairs on her couch who happened to be her son’s great, great whatever grandfather, but all she was able to think about right now was how good Killian Jones had looked coming down her stairs in a pair of low slung flannel pants and tight fitted t-shirt.

_Seriously, Emma? Get it together._

Rolling over, she punched her pillow and disregarded the faint rays of dawn creeping over her windowsill. After the revelation of Henry being a direct descendant of Killian, Emma had retreated up the stairs, ignoring his pleas for her to come back and discuss the matter while muttering there was nothing to discuss. Which of course, was a lie. There was plenty to discuss, but that moment, that discovery, had been the last straw on an already teetering pile of emotion she wasn’t willing to expose to him again. 

The feel of his arms around her, and the soothing cadence of his voice had already left her feeling raw and vulnerable when they’d shared their time of grief earlier. She’d unexpectedly let her guard down, and try as she might, she was having a hard time getting her armour to fit back into place when it came to this man she knew next to nothing about. Yet, even with that reminder, Emma had never met anyone with whom she’d shared such an instant connection, and that fact only served to unsettle her further.

His mere existence as a man out of time was unsettling, as was the part he played in a legend she’d heard all her life but had never given anything more than a passing scoff about. It was also unnerving how he was able to read her as much as she could him, to say nothing of how his handsome looks and lilting accent got her pulse racing on more than one occasion.

Once her room was flooded with morning light, Emma relented and got out of bed. There were things that needed to get done. She would have to give a statement about Graham to Sydney for _The Mirror_. She needed to check in with David and August. The town would need the comfort of their officers’ presence in the wake of their sheriff’s death. To say nothing of the one item she kept moving further and further down the mental list she made as she got ready to face the day ahead.

She had to find a way to stop the Dark One.

Making her way downstairs, Emma stopped short on the turn of the landing when she spied Henry excitedly talking with Killian, both of them reclined on the couch with open books piled in their laps. That’s when it fully hit her. Rumplestiltskin wasn’t the only Dark One. Killian’s name was etched on that blade, too. Of course, she already knew that, but the truth of it was something she’d managed to keep at bay until now.

Did he have magic? Would his skin turn all grey and scaly? Would he require a new heart, too? Like the legends said? If they managed to find a way to stop Rumplestiltskin, would it work against Killian, as well? 

She should have asked all these questions last night. David was right. What had she been thinking letting him stay under her roof? She’d gone to bed, knowing he wouldn’t sleep, and spent the night tossing and turning about Graham, Henry’s ancestral lineage, and how nicely toned Killian’s arms and chest were. What the hell was the matter with her?

“Swan?” Killian’s voice jarred her. “I didn’t hear you come down.” Leaving Henry to continue thumbing through books, Killian made his way from the couch to the kitchen. “Would you like some coffee, love? Henry showed me how to use your… Keurig? What I wouldn’t have given to have had one of these marvels on my ship.”

Emma glanced over at Henry who gave her a cheery, “Morning, Mom,” before diving back into the pages. Killian was at her side when she made her way off the final step, a mug of fresh coffee in hand.

“How did you sleep?” Killian asked, his eyes sweeping over her face, taking in the evidence of her restless night.

“Not well,” she confessed. Bringing the mug up to her lips, she took a testing sip then jut out her chin, indicating towards Henry and the piles of scattered books. “How long have you two been at it?” 

“The lad’s only been up for about an hour,” he told her, fondly peering over his shoulder at her son. “But he’s already bursting with ideas he’s eager to share.”

The awed expression on his face as he looked at Henry made Emma’s heart flutter then clench. “You didn’t tell him that you’re his--”

“No,” he assured her. “You left so abruptly last night, I wasn’t sure how much you wished for him to know.”

Guilt pinched her face as she turned apologetic eyes up to his. “Yeah, uh… sorry about that, I just--”

Killian waved her off. “There’s no need for apologies, love. It was a shock for us both. I don’t fault you for needing time to come to terms with things. Truth be told… I found the solitude after you left to be… cathartic.”

Emma gave him a commiserating smile. They were in the same lifeboat, she and Killian Jones. She may not have woken up in a different time, but they both had their worlds, their existences, turned completely upside down. They had suffered loss, disorientation of their realities, an inexplicable camaraderie, and a shared devotion to the boy who seemed to have had enough of their whisperings at the foot of the stairs.

“Can we talk about the Dark One now?” Henry sighed, dramatically. “Killian and I have ideas we want to talk to you about, Mom.”

Sharing an amused smile, Killian swept his arm out, gesturing for Emma to go ahead of him. When she sat next to Henry on the couch, she was disappointed Killian chose to take a seat in the club chair rather than in the space she’d left for him beside her. Pushing the feeling aside, she focused her attention on the books and what her son was practically bouncing in his seat over.

“Okay,” she said. “What have you come up with?”

Henry looked over at Killian.

“Go on, lad,” Killian encouraged. 

Henry beamed then turned his attention back to Emma, and once again her chest tightened.

“Okay, so. Killian said he’d read through most of the legends and excerpts that contained information on the Dark One last night.” Henry’s expression switched, as did his focus, when he interjected, excitedly, “Did you know one of the printed legends was actually one Killian told to a group of people at some party he was at? He’s the reason we associate the Toll Bridge with the legend of the Dark One! How cool is that?”

“That’s very cool, Henry,” Emma replied, placing a hand on her son’s knee. “But maybe you could--”

“Right! Yeah. Sorry,” he said sheepishly. 

Emma’s eyes caught Killian’s over the top of her son’s head, both of them sharing a fond look for Henry. Though Killian's seemed to expand, including her in its affectionate gaze which brought a rush of heat to her cheeks.

“Anyway,” Henry continued. “Killian pointed out that every legend has different details, sometimes even contradicting each other. It got me thinking.” Henry wet his lips then pulled the bottom one between his teeth as his brow scrunched together. “There have been different Dark Ones, right? Different hosts for the Darkness? Like, right now, both Killian and Rumplestiltskin are Dark Ones, but they are different people, right?”

“What are you getting at, lad?” Killian asked, shifting uncomfortably in his seat.

“What if the reason there are so many different versions is because there’s been so many different Dark Ones? The details change with each Dark One and their deals.”

“Okay, yeah,” Emma nodded in agreement. “That makes sense, but… how does that help us?”

“I think if we want to find a way to stop Rumplestiltskin then we need to figure out what _he_ wants. Not what the Dark One in general wants.”

“He wants to be the sole host for the Darkness,” Killian stated. “When he and I faced one another on the battlefield, he mortally wounded me before I stabbed him with my - _his_ \- dagger. He presumes, and I… I agree, that the Darkness split itself. Uncertain of where to go, both of us lay dying, I think,” Killian’s eyes unfocused themselves, and he seemed to retreat into himself for a moment before he shook his head, swallowed thickly, and carried on. “I think the Darkness has sustained us both all this time, weakened by its division, and thereby making Rumplestiltskin’s… and my powers dull. Rumple wants the full power back, and he has to kill me with the dagger in order to do so.”

“Well, then let’s make sure he doesn’t get his hands on it,” Emma quipped. Looking around she asked, “Where is it?”

“Hidden beneath the couch cushion the lad is seated upon.”

Henry gave Killian a stunned look. Clearly, he’d put it there thinking Killian had no idea. A pained expression gripped Killian’s features, and his body went rigid when Henry removed the dagger from its hiding place.

“How did you--”

“I can sense it,” Killian answered in a strained tone, his hands gripping the armrests of the chair. “It… calls to me, in a way. Like a siren, it lures me to it with urgings of unification, but I...”

“But what?” Emma prompted, breathlessly. The crackle of the atmosphere had the fine hairs of her arms standing on end, and she could tell Henry was holding his breath in anticipation of something. Although, neither of them knew what, exactly.

“I cannot simply take it,” he confessed. The strain seemed to grow tighter in his words, like he was forcing them past an unseen obstacle. “It is in Henry’s possession, and until he relinquishes either by choice or carelessness, I am powerless to its bidding.”

Killian sagged back in his seat and scrubbed a hand over his face. Once more, the truth of not who, but what, was sitting in her living room came to the surface of Emma’s fears and concerns. It was evident now, the force with which Killian was applying in order to keep the Darkness at bay. The toll it was taking on him to sit in the presence of the dagger and not be able to claim it clearly sat in the tension of his shoulders, the tick of his jaw, and quick, predatory glances he gave to the scalloped blade resting in her son’s hand. Emma wasn’t the only one to sense the turmoil within Killian, but while his agitation put her on a high alert of caution, it seemed to bring out Henry’s compassion.

“Here,” her son said, holding the dagger out towards Killian.

Emma opened her mouth to protest, but was cut off by the unnatural speed with which Killian shot out of the club chair and backed away to the farthest corner of the room.

“No, lad. I can’t.”

Henry stood, but was halted from approaching Killian by Emma’s hand. The ignorance of innocence shone from his face and quipped off his words as he asked, “Why not? It’s literally got your name on it.”

“I don’t…” Killian closed his eyes tightly and swallowed before taking in a deep breath and meeting their gazes once more. “I don’t trust myself with it. The fervor with which I desire it is more intense than you could know, but…” His eyes fell to the floor, and Emma could see shame creep over his entire demeanor. “I also know it is not _I_ that truly desires it. The Darkness wants it, not I, therefore I think it best if it remains in your care for now.”

Henry looked down at Emma, who gave him a small nod of agreement. He then sat back down, slipping the dagger back beneath the cushions. Killian took another moment to compose himself, running his hand through his long hair several times then scratching his fingers through the scruff that littered his jaw, which Emma could now see held flecks of auburn in its growth. When he resumed his seat, he gave every indication he was in control of the corruption lurking just beneath the surface, but Emma knew better. Caught between wanting to protect herself, her son, and the entire town for that matter, and the compulsion to console and encourage a man whose plight made her heart ache and her defenses rear up to include him in that list of people she vowed to protect, Emma struggled with what to do next.

“So… if Rumplestiltskin wants his full powers back,” Henry said, bringing them all back to the matter at hand in the way only a child full of hope and belief could, “And the only way he can do that is by making himself the _only_ Dark One again, then maybe…”

“I should beat him to it,” Killian finished, hollowly. “If I were to kill Rumplestiltskin, then I alone would possess the Darkness. It would be only my name etched upon the blade. I alone would hold the power Rumple craves. I alone would--”

“No,” Emma clipped out sharply, jumping to her feet.

Killian jolted, his spiraling descent into whatever spell the Darkness was casting over his mind interrupted by her adamant tone and sudden action.

“We are not going to choose the lesser of two evils,” she stated. “We are going to find another way out of--”

“There is no other way,” Killian insisted, getting to his feet. “We cannot allow Rumplestiltskin to regain the full measure of the Darkness. If killing him and taking it upon myself is the only way to stop him, then so be it!”

“Do you even hear yourself?” Emma shouted. “You can’t be serious!”

“I assure you, love,” he murmured darkly as a crackle of crimson shimmered at his fingertips. “We are _very_ serious.”

Emma’s brows shot up and a ripple of unease skittered along her skin. Lunging for the spot where Henry was still planted upon the couch, Emma wrenched the dagger out from beneath him, earning her an indignant, _Hey!_ as she held up the blade.

“I command the Darkness to be silent. The only opinion I want from you, is Killian’s.”

Killian’s features distorted with rage and he opened his mouth. When no utterances came forth his eyes widened and the color drained from his face. On unsteady legs, he retreated back to the chair and collapsed into it, disbelief and alarm sweeping through his expression before he buried his face in his hands.

“Henry,” Emma said calmly. “Will you please get Killian a glass of water?”

Henry padded off towards the kitchen, but Emma kept her attention fixed on Killian. Gone was the fear, the worry of having a Dark One in their midst. All that remained was gut wrenching, heart breaking compassion for the man whose shoulders shook in defeated anguish as he tried to ward off yet another breakdown.

“I’m sorry, Swan,” he exhaled on a sob. “You were right, that wasn’t me. I don’t want that. I don’t to _be_ that… don’t want to be _this_.”

Emma dropped the dagger on the coffee table and knelt down in front of him. She placed one hand on his knee while the other gently pulled his hands away from his face.

“I know,” she whispered. “We’ll figure something out, Killian. I promise. Henry and I are on your side, and we won’t let you go through this alone. You’re…” Emma swallowed thickly past the lump in her throat and reached up to cup his cheek. “You’re family.”

A watery laugh stuttered from Killian’s lungs and he nuzzled into the palm of her hand, flicking his forget-me-not eyes up to her and nodding appreciatively.

Emma felt Henry’s presence beside her and removed her hand from Killian’s face, allowing him to take the proffered glass from Henry’s hand.

“Thank you, Henry,” Killian said. “I’m sorry if I frightened--”

Henry waved him off. “Don’t apologize. You weren’t yourself.”

As Killian took several gulps of water, Emma noticed the pensive expression on her son’s face. She knew that look well. It meant he knew something, but was hesitant to say anything for fear of bringing trouble down on himself.

“Spill it, kid,” Emma demanded, sitting back onto her heels and crossing her arms over her chest.

Henry’s feet shuffled against the rug beneath his feet while he avoided looking his mother in the eye. Instead, his gaze lifted to meet Killian’s inquiring eyes.

“I think we’ve been looking at this all wrong,” he said. “I don’t think it’s about you killing Rumplestiltskin, or him killing you. I think it’s about finding a way to kill the Darkness.”

“The Darkness is immortal, lad,” Killian reminded him.

“Immortal doesn’t mean invincible,” Henry countered. “And I think I might know where we can find out whether it has any weaknesses.”

“Where?” 

Henry’s eyes slid to Emma’s. “You’re not gonna like it.”

“Tell me anyway,” she deadpanned.

“The Storybrooke Coven website.”

“The what?” Killian sputtered, choking slightly on his last sip of water.

Emma rolled her eyes and sighed. “The Storybrooke Coven is a society of town residents who _claim_ to be descended from witches. They have a website archiving grimoires, letters, spells, diaries, you name it that have _supposedly_ been passed down through Storybrooke families for generations.”

“Why do you think this coven might hold knowledge of the Darkness’ potential weakness?” Killian asked Henry.

“Because it knew where the dagger was hidden.”

~/~

Killian sat on the floor beside Emma who was searching through the coven website with Henry, each of them with a laptop balanced on their legs. The two had been scouring through pages of scanned documents and articles ever since the lad had finished his tale about how he’d come to obtain the infernal dagger in the first place. A tale he’d been reluctant to share before now, fearing it would only remind his mother that he’d broken curfew and was due for a punishment. 

After some reassurances he would not be grounded for life, Henry had relented. It turned out a young friend of his, Grace - who, according to Emma was going through her _witch phase_ \- was something of an expert on the Storybrooke Coven, much in the same way Henry was regarding all things Dark One. Grace had told Henry of references she’d found of the Darkness, the Dark One and the dagger during some of her investigations on the website the day before. Mentions of the creature's last known sighting, whose hands the dagger had fallen into, and where it may have been hidden all these years were too large a curiosity for the lad to pass up looking into. So he, Grace, and two more of their friends had gone to the cemetery in search of it. 

The clever lass had pieced together clues left behind by coven members who had been alive during the Revolutionary War, and who had recorded their experiences in journals and letters. These clues were what both Emma and Henry had been searching for as the three of them sat on the floor of the living room. The time the Swans’ spent in research afforded Killian the opportunity to reflect on how easily the Darkness had been able to manipulate his mind, and fortify himself against further assault.

Thank the gods Emma had been able to ascertain the truth and act upon it before the Darkness could provoke him into using his magic. He shuddered to think what he would have done; how quickly he could have destroyed Emma and Henry’s trust. It was a wonder either of them trusted him at all, especially when he was having a hard time trusting himself. It was unnerving how expertly the Darkness could mimic his own interval voice, twisting its wishes just enough to make Killian believe they were his own. Thankfully, the demon was silent for now. Emma’s command had effectively muzzled it, but Killian could still feel its presence, sense its emotion, and he prayed Emma’s endeavors would provide for them a way to be rid of it once and for all.

“Okay,” she said, breaking the tense silence. “From what I’ve been able to find, it looks as though the witches had sensed the intrusion of the Dark One’s magic when he came back with the British Army. They gathered here to keep tabs on him. They were present during the battle, hidden away within the safety of the treeline.” Emma paused and looked up at Killian. “You were right about the Darkness. There’s a passage here that talks about how they felt _the Darkness rend itself in two_.” 

“And I found another diary entry from that time,” Henry added. “It says _when the battle was over, the wife of the man who had bested the Dark One with his final breaths came upon him with the dagger still clutched in his hand. When the coven tried to intervene, demanding she hand over the dagger to them for safe keeping, she refused._ How did she get access to the battlefield?” Henry questioned. “And why wouldn’t she give them the dagger?”

“It was customary for civilians to be called upon to help tend to the wounded and bury the dead,” Killian replied. “Those who may have had a loved one fighting would usually arrive hoping for news, or would simply go out among the fallen in search of it themselves. I sent Milah a letter the morning of the battle through my cabin boy. It most likely prompted her to come to the site once the battle was over.” His gut tightened at the thought of Milah finding his body. “Milah would never have trusted a witch’s motives. Plus, she knew the legends of the Dark One as well as I, which means she would have recognized the dagger, and the physical changes in Rumple’s appearance. She would have known what my name upon the blade meant.” Killian stood and paced the length of the room, his hand sweeping through his hair in contemplation. “What I don’t understand is why Rumple and I were dormant for so long.”

“Oh! Wait a second. I read something that might explain that,” Emma exclaimed, scrolling back through her research. “Here! According to the coven’s records, they placed a spell over the splintered Darkness and its potential hosts, preserving them in a death like state.”

“I was under a spell? Then why didn’t Milah simply awaken me with the dagger?”

“Because the witches told her the preservation spell sealed the splintered parts of the Darkness within each host. She knew you’d still be the Dark One,” Henry replied, reading from a passage he’d found. “Plus, they told her the spell could only be broken by the Harbinger.” Henry’s head popped up from behind his screen with a perplexed look. “What’s a Harbinger?”

“A forerunner of something,” Killian answered. “A person or thing that signals the approach or start of another person or thing.”

“So… am _I_ the Harbinger?” Henry questioned with trepidation. “I mean… I am the one who found the dagger and woke you both up by calling out your names, so…”

Emma placed a hand on her son’s shoulder. “It could mean anything, Henry,” she soothed. “For all we know the witches lied to Milah so she wouldn’t even try to resurrect Killian or Rumple.”

“Your mother’s right, lad,” Killian agreed, lowering himself to the floor in front of the boy and giving him an assured smile. “Witches are known for their sly turn of phrase. Harbinger could have meant any number of variables, or it could have meant nothing at all.” Killian’s brows furrowed with another question. “How did Grace work out the location of the dagger? How did she know it was interred with Milah?”

“The mason who built the mausoleum was married to one of the coven witches,” Henry answered. “Grace said the coven kept tabs on the woman and her family over the years. The mason informed his wife, who in turn informed the coven, that the woman requested a small chamber be constructed behind her name plaque, and the dimensions provided for the cavity corresponded with those of the dagger. Even though the woman and her family are never named in the coven’s writings, the Cassidy mausoleum is the only one in Storybrooke Cemetery, so…”

“Wasn’t much of a leap for you guys to guess whose name plate to desecrate,” Emma quipped. Her eyes shot to Killian’s once she realized what she’d said. “Killian, I’m so sorry. That was so insensitive of me.”

Killian reached out and placed a calming hand on her outstretched leg (which was thankfully covered). “It’s alright, Swan,” he assured her. “I know you meant no disrespect.”

“Still,” she said, softly. “I know all this can’t be easy for you to hear.”

Remarkably, it was easier than Killian thought it would have been. Yes, his heart did twinge a bit whenever they found mentions of Milah, but not with the despondency he’d felt the day before. Instead, each detail uncovered brought with it a feeling of fond remembrance and a continued sense of peace regarding his long deceased wife.

Emma and Henry shared a few more of their findings they found to be of interest from the coven’s records of that time. It seemed the witches not only kept tabs on Milah and her family, but the mass grave on the outskirts of the battlefield where the Dark One’s remains had been placed with the rest of the fallen redcoats had been overseen as well. One coven member had gone so far as to buy the land, which was later homesteaded by their descendant. The coven also took a special interest in the woman’s son, the one she’d bore from the man who had been slain and laid to rest with the Darkness. That piece of intel had Emma and Killian sharing knowing looks, with furtive glances cast in Henry’s direction as each of them inexplicably broke out in goosebumps.

The raised nature of Killian’s flesh only intensified when Emma found a final detail relating to the provisions the coven had taken to further safeguard the dagger after Milah’s death. It had not only been hidden away with mortar and fastenings, but with a powerful binding magic as well. The coven, it seemed, had sealed the dagger away with both blood magic and something they referred to as the Enactment.

“Blood magic? A Harbinger? The Enactment? Did I start the apocalypse or something?” Henry said, slightly ashen faced.

“Okay, I think it’s time we took a break,” Emma stated, getting up off the floor and pulling Henry up with her. “Food. And a distraction. Something non witch or Dark One related. Go play some video games for a while, then we can freak out about you causing the end of the world, okay, kid?” 

Henry cracked a smile and took a deep breath in response to his mother’s teasing. “Can I have a poptart?”

Emma crossed her arms over her chest and narrowed her eyes at him in mocked scrutiny. “Fine. Take it to your room, so Killian and I can talk grown up talk, okay?”

Henry rushed toward the kitchen, pulled a shiny wrapped parcel from one of the cabinets, then sprinted up the stairs. Killian and Emma both waited until they heard his door slam before turning toward each other with mirrored looks of panicked concern.

“What the hell does all that mean?” Emma whisper shouted at him. “Henry's a Harbinger? A Harbinger of what? And how could he break a spell? He’s not magical.” Her eyes widened, and the blood drained from her face. “Oh, my god. Is he magical? How would I know if he has magic? How would I _not_ know if he has magic?”

“Swan, you have to stay calm. Breathe, love,” Killian advised, leading her back to the couch where they sank down onto the cushions. “Henry is not magical.”

“How do you know that?” she questioned in a continued tone of hysteria. “You have magic, don’t you? And he’s related to you, so wouldn’t it make sense for Hen--”

“I only have magic because the Darkness is a magical being,” he reminded her. “I did not possess magic when Milah and I… when we… when our child was…”

“Conceived?” Emma provided with a fresh note of amusement. His embarrassment over the intimate nature of the subject effectively eased her panic and caused his face to flush with heat, tinting up to his ears.

“Aye,” he commented, scratching behind his ear awkwardly. Before his mind could be hijacked again (though, not from the sinister musings of the Darkness, but his own betraying ardor, seducing him with images of Emma and himself in various positions of intimacy), he brought them back to the topic at hand. “Look, Swan. I may not know what this Harbinger or Enactment business means, but I do know the reference to blood magic is nothing to worry about. Blood magic means only a person within a specific blood line can access a location, and we already knew Henry was related to Milah through his father.”

“What about the other stuff?” Emma questioned. “And why were these witches so fixated on the Dark One, and Milah, and the dagger in the first place?”

Killian stilled as memory from the recesses of his mind surged forward; a recollection from his former life paired with a reminder of something he’d read earlier that morning. Frantically, Killian began searching through the piles of books while Emma watched with an inquisitively set brow. 

“What are you looking for?”

“My legend,” he told her. “That is, the one I told to Rumplestiltskin that night long ago that somehow ended up recorded in one of these books.” He knew the detail he was seeking appeared in other versions of the legend as well. After all, it was through their telling he’d first heard of it. However, finding it randomly versed in one of them seemed like a waste of time when he knew he’d referenced it in his own. “A-ha!” he declared upon locating the sought after book. “Listen to this, Swan: 

_Worrying what it would mean to have the host’s heart grow still_

_They sought out a witch to correct it with her blasphemous skill._

_“A new heart is what you require,” the crone did tell_

_“But take heed, this new one will end up failing you as well.”_

_With a fresh heart procured thanks to the witch’s ill placed trust_

_The Darkness and his man continued to indulge in every evil lust._

...the Dark One took the heart of the witch. What if she was part of a greater coven? Perhaps this act against one of their own - which was also the first occurrence of him taking any heart - is the reason they kept tabs on him throughout the centuries?”

Emma jumped from the couch and retrieved her laptop. “If that’s the case, then we should go back to the earliest records the coven website has, and see if there is anything recorded from the time of the witch’s death.”

Settled once more at Killian’s side, she showed him how to navigate through the site using various searches. Keywords like _the Dark One_ and _the Darkness_ garnered too many results to sift through without a corresponding date to help narrow down the search. It wasn’t until Killian suggested they reference _the Harbinger_ that they managed to find what they were looking for.

“It appears to be an account of the punishment the coven handed down to the Dark One after he killed one of their order,” Killian stated as he skimmed over the scanned, handwritten image Emma confessed she couldn’t read because of its _old timey_ script. “Basically, it says their sister had deduced correctly the Darkness’ fear of its host’s initial heart because of the potential it held towards its demise, which is why it tempted its host towards acts of corruption in the first place.”

“Potential demise?” Emma said, excitedly. “How?”

“One moment, I’m getting there,” Killian muttered, clicking to the next page. “The Darkness prompted its host to take the witch’s heart, hoping the truth of its weakness would die with her, but instead, sealed its own fate.”

“How?” Emma questioned more urgently.

With every line his eyes poured over, Killian knew they were getting closer to the reveal of that weakness. He could feel the Darkness struggling against the pursuit, the urging within him to slam the lid of Emma’s laptop closed and destroy the infernal machine before the information within it could destroy him. No, not him. _It_. The Darkness. The plague wreaking havoc on his soul as it conspired to find ways of enticing him to blacken his own heart. He wouldn’t, though. He wasn’t about to give the monstrous spectre another foothold, not when they were so close.

Killian clicked once more, past the page that simply listed those members who had been present during the handing down of the Dark One and its master’s sentence, and gasped when he read what was scribed on the final page.

“What?” Emma demanded, latching onto his arm and leaning in closer to the screen. “What did you find?”

Killian swallowed heavily and pushed past the pressure building in his throat, attempting to keep him silent. “They cursed it,” he croaked out. “The Darkness. They cursed it to eventually succumb to the thing that could destroy it once and for all.”

“What’s that? What can destroy the Darkness?”

“It doesn’t make that clear,” Killian told her, “But let me read you the curse. Perhaps it will give us some clues.”

Emma nodded and worried her lip as Killian recited the curse the coven had cast upon the Darkness.

_From this day forth, to this place you shall be tethered_

_Reaping new hosts here when your old one becomes too weathered_

_For among this hamlet shall beat the heart of your demise_

_After all, it is where the most powerful of magic resides_

_And a child shall be your undoing_

_A Harbinger who calls forth the Darkness from its slumbers ensuing_

_One tied to a Host in lines of blood and bonds of sinew_

_Enacting the events that will bring about the end of you_

_Death and greed and vengeance brings one doom_

_While salvation awaits the pure of heart and true love in bloom_

For the second time in as many days, Killian found himself holding a despondent Emma Swan in his arms. Though he would much prefer to have his arms around her under different circumstances, he certainly was not about to begrudge her the comfort she found in his embrace. Especially when the reciprocation of it did wonders for his own turmoil over the verses he’d just read aloud.

“Why him?” Emma sniffled. “Why Henry? Why does he have to be the Darkness’ undoing?”

“I’m sorry, Swan,” Killian murmured into her hair. “I’ve brought this upon you all, and I--”

“Don’t,” she chastised him, pulling away only far enough to be able to look up into his eyes. “This isn’t your fault Killian. You didn’t know any of this would happen when you stabbed Rumplestiltskin with that dagger.”

“Be that as it may,” he countered. “It has happened, and I swear I will do everything in my power to keep the lad, and you, safe.” Emma collapsed back into his arms and squeezed him tightly around the middle as Killian continued to rub soothing circles over her back. “For starters, we must ensure Rumple never learns of this, or he’ll use all his power, stunted as is, to harm Henry.”

“Kill him, you mean,” Emma lamented into his shirt. “When the Darkness finds out about Henry, it’ll want him dea…”

Emma stilled and slowly pulled back, fearful and wary eyes reluctant to meet his questioning gaze.

“Swan? Love, what is it?”

“What about you?” she said on no more than a breath.

“What about me?”

“What about the Darkness that’s in you?” she accused. “ _It_ knows. If you know, it knows. What’s to stop _you_ from--”

Killian hated the way Emma flinched when he reached up to cup her cheeks, but he needed her to hear the truth in his words, to see the sincerity burning from his eyes as he vowed, “I’d sooner stab myself through my own heart with that bloody dagger than ever lay a hand on your boy.” 

He reached down with one hand and grabbed the dagger from where Emma had dropped it on the table earlier. Once in his hand, he felt a swell of satisfaction ripple through him, a smug contentedness taunting the woman in front of him for having been so foolish as to set the blade aside. Perhaps sensing the change washing over him, Emma went rigid. Her action only hardened the determination within him, and despite the hissing protests violently convulsing in his spirit, he placed the dagger in her hand and firmly wrapped her fingers around the hilt.

“But just to be certain,” he forced out, “this dagger should remain in either your or Henry’s possession at all times. Promise me.” 

Tears shimmered in Emma’s eyes and her features softened from the taut strain of distrust into the reassured ease of belief. “I promise.”

“Good,” he exhaled, running his thumb over her cheek, still palmed in his hand. “That way we can ensure your boy stays safe.”

“Our boy,” Emma corrected, making Killian’s chest constrict.

“What?”

“Ours,” she repeated. “Henry is as much yours as he is mine. I need you to remember that in case you start to get any murdery feelings.”

Killian chuckled at her attempt to bring levity to the moment, and pulled her back into his arms, her uneasy smile resting against his chest. “Aye, love. Ours.”

They both knew they’d have to figure out what to tell Henry. Obviously, Killian would leave the decision up to Emma in regards to how much they should divulge to the lad. Although, he couldn’t help but think the clever boy would end up finding the curse and working out his connection to it on his own. Wouldn’t it be better for the news to come from them?

He also couldn’t help but ruminate over all they’d discovered these past few hours; each revelation teetering the careful balance between peace of mind and upheaval of spirit. While Killian sat with Emma and basked in the quiet moment they were sharing together, content in her presence and thankful to all the gods for bringing such a woman into his life, he could also feel the raging fury of the Darkness lashing out deep within him. 

It gnashed and snarled in response to the exposure of vulnerability and the defiance of its host. But mostly… it was afraid. Afraid of the boy who was prophesied to be its undoing. Afraid of the bonds forming between Killian, Emma, and Henry. Afraid that the errant thought Killian had vowed to Emma in rushed promise might be further pondered.

A thought that included the dagger and his own heart… and perhaps Rumple’s heart as well.


	5. Chapter 5

**Part Five**

“Can I call you Gramps?”

“Not if you expect a response,” Killian scoffed disgustedly. “Killian will do.”

Emma snorted and attempted to smother her laugh. She had to give it to her kid. Henry was taking the news of being Killian’s seven times great grandson pretty well, though he did still look a little pale from when they’d told him about the curse. 

Hell, she was still pale about it.

Her son was the Harbinger of some prophetic, end game curse, enacted by his locating the dagger and summoning the Darkness and its hosts from where they had been kept dormant through a spell. One of which was currently in her kitchen, helping to clean up from lunch with her son while she finished making some calls.

How was this her life?

“Everything well at the precinct?” Killian questioned when she made her way into the kitchen and sat down at the dining table.

“Yes… and no?” she told him, placing her cell phone on the table. “David sent August home a few hours after he went back to the precinct last night, and said everything was pretty quiet for the rest of the shift. David is heading home for a few hours of sleep, leaving August to man things until I can get there. He said not to rush, but I can tell he finds the lack of Rumple’s presence anywhere to be as disconcerting as I do.”

“Aye,” Killian agreed. “It does make one wonder what the vile little imp has been up to.”

Emma rubbed a hand across her forehead, briefly massaging her temples before moving her hand to knead the muscles at the back of her neck. Killian’s concerned look swept over her. Tossing the towel he’d been using to dry the dishes over his shoulder, he approached and knelt down in front of her. 

“Perhaps you ought to try and rest before going into the precinct later,” he suggested with a note of tenderness. “I could go out and see if I can find any evidence of what Rumple has been up to while Henry continues the research.”

“Go out?” she said, alarmed. “But… what if that’s what he wants you to do? What if he’s planning an ambush or something.”

Killian reached up and placed a soothing hand on her shoulder, massaging his fingers into her muscles in an effort to relieve her tension while reminding her, “There’s nothing Rumple can do to me without the dagger. And so long as you and Henry stay in the house, there’s nothing he can do to either of you.”

“But,” Emma countered, still not on board with the idea of Killian leaving her sight. “What if August sees you while he’s out on patrol? You’re supposed to be on a psych hold.”

Clearly not entirely sure what that meant, Killian’s brows scrunched together. Then both of their heads snapped towards Henry as he suggested, “What if Killian got a haircut? With the clothes Uncle David gave him and a more modern hairstyle, he’d be able to blend in better around town.”

Killian took hold of a section of his shoulder length hair and brought it up towards his eyes, considering it and Henry’s words thoughtfully. “Perhaps the lad has a point. I have noticed that longer hair on men has gone out of fashion.”

“Except for that unfortunate man bun craze,” Emma quipped, knowing Killian wouldn’t understand the reference, and loving his adorably confused expression. 

Until she caught sight of something else behind his eyes. 

Without thought, she tucked the out of place section of his hair behind his ear and asked, “There’s more than wanting to see if you can find out what Rumple’s been doing behind your desire to leave the house, isn’t there?”

Killian’s eyebrows rose innocently, and for a moment she thought he might brush off her question. Exhaling a tight breath, he confided, “I think it best if I take some time away. Clear my head and be out of the presence of the dagger for a bit. Besides,” he added with a tone of nostalgia, “Storybrooke was my home once. I would like to get reacquainted with her. See if there is anything left that might…”

Emma nodded. She didn’t need him to finish the thought in order to sympathize with how it must feel to have nothing familiar to help ground oneself. The man was certainly made of stern stuff, to be able to process and adapt so quickly. It struck her that this same trait was one she’d marveled in Henry moments ago, awed by how well her son was handling the upheaval of his own reality. Like seven times great grandfather like son, she supposed.

“Well, then,” she said, standing from the chair and causing Killian to get to his feet as well. “If you’re going into town, possibly getting a haircut, then you’ll need some money.” Heading for the stairs, she turned to continue talking to Killian over her shoulder only to find him steps behind her. “I have some cash hidden away in my room you can have.”

“You mean in that zipper pouch in your sock drawer,” Henry quipped. When she gave him an incredulous look, he cocked a cheeky brow at her and snorted, “What? It’s not a very good hiding spot, Mom.”

Emma’s mouth dropped, not at her son’s comment, but the look on his face. The arched brow, the hint of a smirk, and the smug expression were all features she’d come to expect from him as boyhood had begun to fall away, making room for adolescence. This time, however, when he applied those features to his sassy retort, Emma was hit with the manifestation of a truth she’d been continually processing since last night.

“Oh, my god,” she said on a slightly hysterical breath of amusement, rushing up the stairs.

“Swan?” Killian called out, right on her heels. “Emma? What is it?”

After crossing the threshold of her room, Emma spun around and blurted out, “He has your brows!”

Blanching, Killian’s brows maneuvered in a way she’d seen Henry’s play out a number of times, further solidifying the truth of her observation. 

“Henry has what?”

Nearly overcome with the need to laugh, Emma’s exhale came out stuttered as she repeated, “Henry has your eyebrows. The way they arch and lift as though moving on their own accord,” her eyes swept over Killian’s brow line, “they’re just like yours. He gets that from you.”

A stunned look of heartfelt pride settled over Killian’s features, then his eyes caressed Emma’s face. “He has your nose and chin,” he told her. It was something Emma was already aware of, but was perhaps the first time he had noted the resemblance. “I take it, his father’s eyes were the same soft brown?”

“Yeah,” she affirmed. “He has Neal’s eyes and smile.”

“He has Milah’s smile,” Killian corrected. Her expression must have betrayed how that piece of information had startled her. “I’m sorry, love. I didn’t mean to--”

“No, no,” she said, cutting off his apology. “You don’t have to… I just…”

Taking her hand, he gently squeezed it to offer her a bit of encouragement. “Just what?”

Emma chewed her lip, her eyes bouncing between his as she drew up her courage. “I love Henry,” she said. “And I have never regretted having him.” 

Unable to hold his open gaze, Emma’s eyes fell to the floor and she pulled her hand from his. Turning, she walked towards her bed and sat on the end of it, patting the mattress beside her as an invitation for him to join her. The bed dipped and she took in a deep breath, feeling his eyes on her. 

“I was young when I had Henry,” she began. “And even though I knew I didn’t want to be with Neal for the rest of my life, I knew I wanted Henry. It was never a question.” Finally, she lifted her eyes to meet his and confessed, “I was born an orphan, so I’ve never really had a family.” When he opened his mouth, she proceeded to answer the question she knew he was about to ask. “David is my foster brother. His family, among others over the years, looked after me for a time when I was young, but I never knew my parents. I’ve never known where I come from, who I got any of my features or traits from. And even though Neal has this vast family history, it was only ever him and his dad when he was growing up, so…”

Killian sat quietly and let her ground herself in the silence and the comfort of his presence, while she collected her thoughts. She had a point she’d wanted to make and now she felt like she was rambling, but when Killian covered her hand with his own, she felt like he was telling her to take her time, that he had all the time in the world to sit there and patiently wait for her.

“I love Henry, but lately, as his features have started to mature, I’ve seen more and more of Neal in him, and that’s… difficult sometimes. But meeting you,” she said, reaching up and running her fingertips over the line of his brow, “I don’t just see Neal or myself in Henry. You're there too, and so is Milah, and that’s… amazing. For so long it’s been just us, but now I can see this larger thing Henry is a part of. A family that goes back generations that he can actually connect with in a way he never could, even when his father was around, and that’s because of you, and…” Emma stopped, growing self conscious at the way she’d gone off again. “I’m sorry,” she muttered, pulling away uncomfortably. “I didn’t mean to put pressure on you like that, I just… I never wanted Henry to grow up feeling like I did. Like he wasn’t a part of something.”

“Emma,” Killian murmured, coaxing her back to him with her chin lightly gripped in his fingers. “I _want_ to be a part of your lives.” His hand slid up to cup her cheek, his eyes burning with a hopeful intensity he must have been suppressing until now. “Henry is the only blood relative I have left, and both of you are… well, forget for the moment that we are connected in this preposterous way,” Emma giggled at that frank assessment, “You two are also the only people I know in this world. I want Henry to know everything about our family. The good and the bad. I want to tell him about my brother, Liam, and Alice, my mother. I want him to know that I understand what it feels like to have a father walk out on you while reminding him he isn’t alone. I want…” 

“What?” Emma asked, covering the hand that was still caressing her face. “What do you want, Killian?”

She could see the war playing out behind his eyes, the turmoil he was experiencing from either trying to pinpoint an answer to her question, or whether to divulge the one he’d already come up with. A tight smile pulled at the corners of his lips, his demeanor shifting slightly, enough to shatter the tender moment and remind Emma there were biggest issues at stake.

“I want you to get some rest,” he urged with a hint of command; a tone she could imagine him using when giving orders to his crew. “I’ll only be gone a few hours, then we can talk more.”

Nodding, Emma stood and made her way over to her dresser, pulling open her sock draw and removing the zippered pouch she used to stash away extra cash. “Here,” she said, handing him a few bills. “This should be enough to cover a haircut. There’s a barber shop on Main Street.”

“Do they still distinguish themselves by hanging out their bloodletting towels?”

“Bloodletting towels?” Emma grimaced. “They really used to do that, huh?”

“Aye,” Killian affirmed. “I take it, from the disgusted expression on your face, that bloodletting has also become a thing of the past?”

“Uh, yeah,” Emma stated. “And be thankful for that. It did more harm than good. Just ask George Washington.”

“ _General_ George Washington?” he inquired, his interest piqued at the familiar name.

“ _President_ George Washington, actually,” she told him, pulling a dollar bill from the pouch and holding it up for him to see. “You might wanna read Henry’s history textbook when you get back.”

~/~

Killian swept a hand through his freshly cut hair and inhaled a deep breath of crisp, autumn air. The bite in his lungs felt invigorating, with just a hint of brine from the nearby harbor teasing his sinuses with a familiar scent that called to him every bit as much as the dagger had back at the Swan house. He could still feel its pull, hear its siren song luring him back, but Killian remained steadfast. He needed this distance, needed the clarity of being outdoors, needed the solace of the ocean that lay just beyond the next few streets.

There weren’t too many people milling about, but the few that were offered him polite nods and friendly greetings as he passed them. He could sense their curiosity. Despite its sprawling borders and boom in population, Stroybrooke still had the quaint charm it had held when he’d inhabited it. A place where everyone seemed to know, or could identify, their fellow citizen by sight, making a stranger obvious in their midst. 

Other than this tight knit community feeling, there was little about the town that felt familiar to Killian. A few natural formations remained, but many of the streets, residences, and businesses had completely altered the landscape he’d once known like the back of his hand. It wasn’t until he reached the harbor that Killian found any lasting remnants of his memories.

The coastline was unchanged. The shores had endured the vestiges of time with little alterations to how Killian remembered them. The cliffs and rocky shoals were untouched, still keeping watch and offering what protection they could from any potential threat the sea might bring to the harbor. 

Casting his eyes up the docks, Killian’s heart clenched at the memory of the _Jewel_ being moored at the shipyard, awaiting repairs for the damage she’d sustained in battle. The battle that lost her the captain she’d served for so many years. It had been the last time he’d seen the old girl, and he wondered what became of her after he, her newly appointed captain, died not but a few days later. The shipyard was no longer there, replaced over time by a line of warehouses.

The warehouses.

Killian clipped a quick path towards the imposing structures, his eyes searching for one in particular; one Emma had told him about. The one protected by the Storybrooke Historical Society. The one with faded paint upon its side that read _KJ and Son Shipping._ The one his son and grandson had begun their business out of, passing it down through his generations.

His son.

Finding the walkthrough to be unlocked, Killian entered the building. Along the walls were exhibits of a historical nature, artifacts behind clear, protective barriers, and informative displays outlining their significance. Killian approached none of them, choosing instead to simply stand in their midst, surrounded by the evidence of his bloodline. Perhaps even standing where his son once stood.

Tears pricked the corners of his eyes and soon spilled over his lashes, streaking down his cheeks. Sorrow and pride filled his spirit. How he wished he could have built this with his son. Wished he could have been there to bear witness to all the milestones a father should and teach him all the lessons a father should bestow. Even so, Killian was so proud at what his son had accomplished, so grateful for Milah’s strength in raising him alongside her other children, and indebted to the Colonel who had stepped in and filled the void Killian’s death had left behind. 

Only… he wasn’t dead, was he? Here he was, alive when everyone else he’d ever known had long passed. All but Rumplestiltskin. All but the bloody Dark One. 

Wiping the remnants of his emotion from his face, Killian sat down in a nearby chair and gathered his thoughts. He’d been wary of thinking too much about his future. In spite of everything they’d discovered, Killian still had no idea what would become of him should they succeed in vanquishing the Darkness. Without its magic sustaining him, who was to say he would not simply turn to dust? He was over two hundred and fifty years old, after all. 

Sitting here, in the place where so many of his progeny had built and lived out their lives, it was hard to not dream of what the future might hold for him should he truly be given a second chance. If he could live free of the Darkness and make a fresh start of things in this new reality, what would fate have in store for him?

_Forget fate_ , Killian scoffed to himself. What had fate ever done for him? 

What would _he_ want his future to hold? Emma had practically asked him that earlier when they’d conversed in her bedroom, and the fervent desire that it include both her and Henry, that it would encompass the three of them, together, had nearly tripped off his tongue. Saying it, though, putting it out there for the fates to feast on with their fickle tendencies had seemed too foolhardy to share. Besides, they had yet to be acquainted for even a full day. How could anyone know with such certainty they wished to spend the rest of their days with someone they’d known for less than a day? And yet, Killian did know. Knew for certain he wanted Emma and Henry Swan to be a part of his life for however long he might have. 

He just hoped he might end up having years or even decades more, once the danger of the Darkness and his Dark One counterpart were dealt with.

As if on cue, the fates saw fit to toy with Killian once more. Prickles of awareness raised over his flesh, and he became aware of the intruder's presence moments before the infernal twittering giggle reached Killian’s ears.

“Good afternoon, dearie,” Rumple greeted mockingly, stepping forward out of the remnants of dark smoke he’d arrived in. “Finally decided to stop hiding away, I see.”

“I haven’t been hiding.” Killian sat back, and regarded his foe with outward apathy while his insides remained vigilant. “One could claim such cowardice from you, however. Where have you been, Rumple? You’ve made yourself rather scarce since last we spoke.”

Rumple meandered through the warehouse, perusing the artifacts and exhibits as if his attentions were not solely focused on the man lounging casually on a chair on the opposite side of the room. Killian knew better. While neither of them showed it, both were eager to determine what the other had been up to, and while not wishing to appear so, were also extremely wary.

“I’ve been observing,” Rumple stated with a shrug of his shoulders. “Time has created a rather curious world, don’t you think? I have found our town, and its denizens, to have become quite unseemingly, haven’t you?”

“Actually,” Killian countered. “I am rather enamoured with the changes. This new century is a marvel.”

Rumple’s eyes swept over Killian with a repulsed look of judgement before he sneered, “Yes. I can see you’ve taken to this new world and its fashion. Lovely haircut, by the way,” he jeered, fluttering his eyelashes in ridicule as he mockingly twittered, “Really brings out your eyes.”

Killian rolled his eyes and let go an impatient sigh. “What do you want, Rumple? Why are you here?” Cocking his head, Killian’s eyes narrowed as something had just occurred to him. “More to the point… how did you know where to find me?”

Slowly, Rumple brought his gaze back towards Killian, his eyes also narrowing with a predatory gleam that made Killian feel uncomfortable in his own skin. A wicked smile pulled unnaturally at the demon’s lips, baring his teeth.

“I followed the signature of our magic,” he told him. “Can you not feel it? Hear it? Sense it?” He began stalking forwards, forcing Killian to stand and brace his stance, readying himself for whatever the creature had planned. “I can hear the Darkness within you calling out to its other half. If you allowed it to flow more freely through you, perhaps it would guide you in much the same way.”

Killian stilled. From the recesses of his being he could recognize the irregularity of the Darkness attempting to imprint itself on his soul, poised to overtake Killian’s will at the slightest hint of surrender. He could feel the undulations of dark magic, the quivering of power vibrating beneath the surface and ready to be called upon at a moment’s notice. The same trembling coursed through the air around him, and Killian understood what Rumple had meant. It was not so dissimilar to the way he sensed the dagger, though the beckoning was more inherent, the need to be reunited more intrinsic.

Wrapped up in his own internal examinations, Killian was only vaguely aware as Rumple began to circle him, his voice probing into Killian’s subconscious as he took advantage of his foe’s distraction.

“But tell me, dearie. What has brought you here? What have you been up to during these long hours of our separation?”

It took every bit of Killian’s mental strength to defy the compulsions he felt, the impulses urging him to give Rumple the answers he sought. He knew it was the Darkness attempting to manipulate him, wishing to restore the two halves of its consciousness so it might be reunited in a single purpose. As Killian warred with the persistent tendrils seeking to spill the secrets Killian had discovered, Rumple’s attention went back to the displays surrounding them, attempting to glean whatever information they might provide as to why Killian had come to be in the warehouse.

_“KJ Cassidy and his son, William, began their shipping company several years after the War of 1812, constructing this warehouse - the first along the abandoned shipyard that had repaired many ships within the Colonial Fleet during the Revolutionary War - and starting a boom of industry that reinvigorated business along Storybrooke Harbor.”_

Killian heard Rumple read the passage from one of the exhibits and bit his tongue, forcing it to remain silent. It did not matter, though. Killian could see the man working out the significance all on his own, and could do nothing but standby and attempt to give nothing away.

“Cassidy…” Rumple drawled. “Why, wasn’t that the name engraved upon the crypt our dear Milah was laid to rest in?” He stalked back towards Killian, his eyes dancing. “KJ? That wouldn’t have been short for Killian Jones, now would it?”

Killian’s teeth ground together at the sound of his demented laugh.

“You didn’t know, did you?” Rumple taunted. “You didn’t know you were to be a father when we faced one another that day, and now… he’s dead, too! They’re all dead!”

Balling his hands into fists, Killian was about to punch the laugh right out of the man’s lungs when his mirth was suddenly halted, replaced with a look of sudden dread.

“Unless…” Rumple’s eyes darted to Killian’s, a look of rage and fear twisting his features. “They aren’t _all_ dead.” Killian flinched back from how quickly Rumple approached, placing himself just inches away from Killian as his black eyes bore into Killian’s blues. “Unless there is still, _One tied to a Host in lines of blood and bonds of sinew.”_

Swallowing tightly, Killian said, “You know of the curse, then?”

“Of course, I do,” Rumple spat, pacing uncharacteristically. “The Darkness was there when it was cast, after all. With each iteration of the Dark One, it has made sure no such tie remained, forcing hosts to kill their entire family if necessary.”

Bile rose in Killian’s throat. He would never do that. No matter how strong the Darkness’ self-preservation became, Killian would never harm Henry. Never.

“It has always ensured there would never be a Harbinger to bring about…” Words died away once more and another part of the puzzle seemed to click into place. “The boy,” Rumple sneered menacingly, snapping his eyes back to Killian. “The boy who found our dagger and woke us from our _slumbers ensuing_. He’s yours, isn’t he? He is to be our undoing, the enactor of the curse, the Harbinger of our demise?”

“Is to be?” Killian retorted with a healthy dose of sass. “He _is_ the Darkness’ undoing. He already enacted the curse when he read our names off the dagger, things have already been set in motion, and now it’s only a matter of time until the Darkness is vanquished. Then it’ll be just you and me, facing off as we’ve always done.”

“Fool!” Rumple shouted. “You really think the Darkness can be overcome by a mere boy? You think it can be kept at bay, even with only half of its power inhabiting you? Think you can keep the boy safe from you? From us? Admit it,” Rumple jeered, “part of you craves the power it offers. A part of you _wants_ to fall headlong into the Darkness.”

“No,” Killian insisted through grit teeth. “I want nothing to do with this power. Nothing!”

“Such a waste,” Rumple stated, disgustedly. “You lack the strength we require, the fortitude to do what must be done.”

Killian’s hair stood on end, aware that it was no longer Rumplestiltskin admonishing him, but the Darkness itself. Emma’s command continued to hold firm over the spectre residing within him, but it had no control over the half inhabiting Rumple. 

“The boy may have already played his part in our curse, but why take the chance? You have his trust, access to his home, the ability to gain control of the dagger and use it to solidify yourself as the one and only Dark One, yet you refuse.” A wicked smile crept over Rumple’s face. “If you will not take matters into your own hands, then we will simply have to do it for you. The boy and his mother cannot stay confined to that house forever, and you will be unable to resist the temptation of your power for much longer. Don’t toy with us, _dearie_. Once the boy and his mother are dead, you’ll have nothing left but _us_ to keep you company.”

Overcome with a surge of protective rage, Killian lunged at Rumpelstiltskin with a growl of fury, but his action fell void. Meeting nothing but emptiness and plumes of smoke, Killian landed on the hard ground of the warehouse, his breath painfully jarred from his lungs. Gasping, Killian pulled himself up off the floor and ran for the door. He had to get back to Swan.

The thought of using his magic to transport himself back to the house did cross his mind, but Killian - despite the time he knew it would cost him - could not take the chance of falling prey to its temptations now. The Darkness had been right. It was only a matter of time before it got the best of him. There was no relief from its urgings, no sanctuary that could provide a respite against the constant bombardment on his soul. His only hope was for the effects of the curse to come to pass before he surrendered, but he had to keep Henry and Emma safe until then.

Killian’s leg muscles were burning and his lungs screamed for air by the time he burst into Swan’s house.

“Emma! Henry!” he cried out. Panic started to rise up within him when neither were visible within the living room or kitchen. A somewhat relieved exhaled dragged its way out of his chest when he heard footfalls from above, making their way to the stairs.

“Killian?” Henry called out, quickly descending the steps. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” Killian panted, still trying to regain his breath. “Where’s your mother?”

“She left.”

Henry’s words had the air seizing in Killian’s chest. “Left? Left where? When? How long has she been--”

“Uncle David called,” Henry rushed to tell him. “He said she needed to meet him at the crime scene. Turns out, because the farm is actually a federally protected historical battlefield, the FBI are coming to work Sheriff Graham’s murder. Uncle David said they all needed to get their stories straight before the feds show up tomorrow morning, so mom went to go meet him there.”

Killian did not understand half of what Henry told him. All that concerned him right now was the fact Emma was no longer under the protection of Henry’s command to Rumplestiltskin. She was vulnerable.

Unless…

“Did she take the dagger with her?”

“No,” Henry informed him, opening the front of the jacket he wore and pulling the dagger from where he’d had it stashed within. “She said I should keep it. That, uh… that I might need it when you got back.”

Killian’s chest tightened and his gut churned, remembering the conversation he’d had with Emma that morning. His vow to never hurt Henry while insisting either she or the boy had possession of the dagger so they could stop him should he lose control. It should not have surprised Killian that she would put Henry’s safety before her own, ensuring he was protected in case the worst happened while he was left alone with a Dark One, regardless of how much faith she and the lad might have in him.

“I told her I would be safe with you and that she should take it, but she pulled the, _I’m your mother and I know what’s best_ card.” Henry’s brows pulled together as he looked up into Killian’s eyes. “Why would she think I needed the dagger with you?”

“Because darkness is a funny thing, Henry,” Killian confessed. “It creeps up in you. And though I would never, _never_ wish you harm, or do anything to hurt you, the Darkness does not feel the same way. Neither your mother nor I were willing to risk your safety.”

“But…” Henry said, his eyes bright with belief. “You’re the good guy. You fought on our side in the Revolutionary War, faced down the Dark One in battle, and before that, you beat him when you won Milah’s heart.”

Killian knelt down and placed a hand on Henry’s shoulders. “I’m afraid _I_ was the villain in that particular tale, lad. I bullied and humiliated Rumplestiltskin to the point he sought out the Darkness in order to exact vengeance against me. It’s because of me you, your mother, the whole bloody town are in danger.”

“That doesn’t mean you aren’t good,” Henry said, reciprocating Killian’s touch and putting a comforting hand on his shoulder. “No one’s perfect. Not even heroes.”

“I’m no hero, Henry,” Killian told him, wishing the opposite were true, especially with the way the boy was looking up at him.

“I think you kind of are.” 

He said it so softly, Killian might have missed it had he not been kneeling right in front of him. Overcome, Killian pulled Henry into a tight hug and rested his cheek atop the boy’s head. 

“Thank you, my boy.”

A strange buzzing, accompanied by a rattling sound, pierced the air. Henry pulled out of Killian’s embrace and rushed to the coffee table where he picked up an item Killian had learned was a cell phone.

“It’s Uncle David,” Henry announced, answering the call. “Hello? … Yeah, he’s here, too.”

Killian heard the murmur of the man’s voice, but could not distinguish what he’d said. Henry drew the device away from his ear and pressed his finger to the screen.

“Okay,” he said, “You’re on speaker.”

_“Killian?”_ the man’s voice echoed through the room with a note of trepidation hanging on every syllable.

“Aye. What’s going on, mate?”

_“Killian, it’s Emma. He’s… the Dark One, he’s…”_

Every muscle in Killian’s body tensed at the mention of Emma and the Dark One in the same breath, yet he somehow managed to get off his knees and come stand beside Henry. 

“What?” Killian demanded. “What has he done with Emma?”

_“Killian,”_ David began again. _“Rumplestiltskin says, if you don’t want Emma to meet the same fate Graham did, then you must bring him the dagger and the boy.”_

“Where?” Killian asked. “Where are they?”

_“Here,”_ David answered. _“To the battlefield. Where it all began.”_

Pale faced and trembling, Henry murmured that the line had gone dead then swung his fright filled brown eyes up towards Killian. “What are we going to do?”

Killian licked his lips and drew in a deep breath of resolve. “Henry,” he said, meeting the boy’s gaze with as much reassurance as he could muster. “I need you to give me the dagger.”

“But… what about me? Rumplestilskin wants me too. If you show up with just the dagger--”

“The dagger is all he cares about,” Killian interrupted. “And I’m not letting you anywhere near him. You’ll be safe here until your mother and I can return.”

“But--”

“No buts, Henry,” Killian said, sharply. Holding out his hand, he demanded, “Now give me the dagger.”

Henry’s eyes fell to the blade grasped in his hand then flicked back up to Killian’s. Cursing under his breath, Killian recognized the lad’s intent before he held the dagger out in front of him.

“I’m coming with you,” Henry insisted. “Killian Jones… I command thee.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Part Six:**

Wisps of red smoke hung around them for a few fleeting seconds after Killian and Henry arrived at the abandoned farm. A good distance away Rumplestiltskin stood with Swan frozen beside him. In his periphery, Killian saw Henry lift the dagger, his intention to order the release of his mother clearly forming on his lips. Killian placed a firm hand on the lad’s shoulder, stalling the words before they could pass over his tongue, for he had also caught sight of something within Rumple's grasp.

A red, glowing something.

Killian’s heart seized at the realization, and before he could warn Henry of what a decree using the dagger might cost them, Rumple offered the particulars of his little trap in the familiar simpering tone that set Killian’s teeth on edge.

“A wise decision, dearie,” Rumple twittered at Henry after the lad's mouth snapped shut and his arm lowered. “You see, I have taken your uncle’s heart and placed a command over it.” A momentary sense of relief washed over Killian at the knowledge it was not Emma’s heart the demon held, but seeing David, standing off to the side, his gun trained on Swan, made his blood run cold. “A command on my name will result in him shooting your mother, so…” He held out his other hand and waved Henry forward. “Best to simply hand over the blade and avoid such unpleasantries.”

Killian’s hand stayed tightly gripped to Henry’s shoulder. “Henry,” Killian murmured low. “Give me the dagger.”

“But--”

“Henry,” Killian interrupted with a harsh note in his tone, making the lad flinch. “I’m not letting you anywhere near Rumplestiltskin. So, please. Give me the dagger.”

“It is useless in your hands,” Rumple told him. “Even if you were willing to sacrifice them all, you cannot use it to command me anymore than I can use it to command you.”

The truth of his statement made the Darkness hiss beneath Killian’s skin. The Darkness could not use the controlling nature of the dagger against itself, but that's not how Killian intended to use it. A fact that made the Darkness within him coil into a protective stance, ready to strike should a moment of weakness within Killian’s will be revealed.

“Henry, my boy,” Killian repeated, this time with a soft smile and a light timbre of reassurance. “You’ve shown nothing but trust in me, even to the point of considering me a hero. Give me the dagger, lad. I promise it will all be alright. I promise, your trust in me will not have been in vain.”

Gazing up at him with wide, brown eyes, Henry placed the hilt of the dagger within Killian’s open palm then gave him a resolved nod of understanding and belief.

“Good lad,” Killian praised, keeping the warm feelings of faith exuding from his progeny at the forefront of his mind. Turning to his nemesis, Killian demanded, “Return David’s heart and let Emma go.”

“First, the blade,” Rumple countered.

“Their safety, or I’ll cast this dagger so far out to sea only the creatures of the deep will ever come across it again.”

After a moment’s assessment, Rumple determined that Killian would be true to his word. Muttering words under his breath, Rumple took Emma’s hand and placed David’s heart within her grasp. It, and her hand, glimmered briefly, solidifying the magic Rumple had conjured.

“I have enchanted your hand,” he explained, impatiently. “You’ll be able to return his heart to him. But be gentle, dearie,” he sneered. “Would be a shame to bruise it.”

Emma’s wide, fear-filled eyes snapped to Killian, who gave her a reassuring nod. Freed from the petrification spell, she ran to her brother and with only a moment’s hesitation, shoved his heart back into his chest. Killian felt his own lungs fill as he witnessed David’s expand, his weapon lowering before pulling Emma into his embrace. 

“Now,” Rumple insisted, his hand outstretched. “The dagger.”

Spinning the hilt in his hand, Killian watched as their names blurred together from the flipping of the blade. A war erupted within him. Factions of his own psyche and that of the parasite indwelt within were facing off, ready to take up arms against one another. He could feel the thrumming power gaining ground in his fingertips, itching to display itself in wonders of awe and devastation. The tenacity with which he’d been holding back the Darkness was no match for its own self-preservation, its desire to unify itself into a single entity once more. 

It would be simple enough to accomplish. Killian had the blade in his hand, and his foe was unarmed. His prideful folly in relinquishing the bartering chip of Emma’s life could very well be his downfall if Killian played the next few moments correctly. It would take only a moment, a quick slip of the blade between the man’s ribs and the Darkness would be united, filling Killian with its full power and strength. He alone would wield the Darkness and take the legend upon himself, no longer sharing its renown with any other. He, Killian Jones, would be the sole owner of the dagger, the only name etched upon the blade that was currently as divided as the Darkness.

The names were almost completely obscured by the speed with which Killian was continuing to spin the blade, until a hand reached up and rested itself upon his forearm, stilling the action.

“Killian?” Henry's voice pierced through the madness that had taken hold of his mind. “Don’t listen to it. Whatever it’s saying, you’re stronger than it is. You can resist it.”

Killian shook his head, snapping him fully back into himself. A shaky breath released from his lungs as he comprehended what had happened. When he’d taken full control over the blade, the command Emma had placed on the Darkness became void, allowing it to begin its assault against Killian’s reasoning once more. Clenching his jaw tightly, Killian internally growled against the spectre, driving it back with a fresh resolve.

“Henry,” Killian grit out. “Go to your mother.” When the lad did not immediately obey, Killian applied the tone he’d once used against his cabin boy in order to ensure his orders were carried out. “Henry! Go!”

The boy scampered off to Emma’s waiting arms, which wrapped themselves tightly around her son, folding him into herself as she looked on with pleading eyes. From their green depths, Killian could read the uncertainty swirling within, but could not risk any assurances. Instead, he turned his attention back to Rumplestiltskin.

“If you want the dagger,” Killian said, waving his hand over the blade before lodging it into the ground with a flick of his wrist. “Come and claim it.” The magic he’d cast would ensure the dagger could only be acquired by the grip of a hand and not conjured from afar, forcing Rumple to come to him. 

“Ah, ah,” Rumple wagged his finger. “Step away, dearie.”

With each tentative step forward Rumple took, Killian matched by stepping back. When at last the demon stood with the dagger at his feet, Killian cast a quick, longing look at Emma and Henry, one last glimpse of them before he did what he knew must be done. A sickening grin spread over Rumple’s face as he bent down to retrieve the dagger, taking his eyes off of Killian, unaware his foe had vanished in a puff of smoke.

Materializing right behind Rumple, Killian shoved his hand into the man’s back and gripped his heart, wrenching it free before Rumple could react. When he spun around, Killian caught his dagger wielding wrist in his other hand, using the full strength of the Darkness within him to keep the other Dark One from stabbing him.

“What are you doing?” Rumple demanded with a faint hint of hysteria lacing his tone.

“What Dark Ones do,” Killian drawled, his voice thick with a toying menace. “Taking a heart.” 

He held up the luminescent organ, not yet fully corrupted by the mire of evil it would have eventually deteriorated under, and mused, “Too bad it isn’t _your_ heart. I imagine you did away with it long ago.”

Rumple struggled to free his wrist from Killian’s grip, using his other hand to try and pry Killian’s fingers from his flesh. Too occupied with that pursuit, he once again failed to notice Killian’s actions. Placing the ill-gotten heart of Emma’s friend and former boss over his own, he set his resolve but could not help one final taunt from his lips.

“No matter. It’s destruction should still supply the outcome I’m after.”

His rash quip ended up being his own downfall when Rumple jerked his hand to the side as Killian forcefully guided the blade to their overlapping hearts. Although it did penetrate the one Rumple had stolen from Graham, killing the man instantly and turning it to ash before either of them could collapse to the ground, the dagger did not meet its second mark when it entered Killian’s chest.

“Killian!” 

He heard both Emma and Henry cry out as rapid footfalls made their way towards him. Groaning, he reached up and wrapped his hand around the hilt of the dagger, protruding from his chest. He had to keep it there. He couldn’t allow them to remove it. 

“Killian!?” 

Emma knelt beside him and he was vaguely aware of Henry’s presence hovering nearby. His grip on the dagger tightened when he felt her hand on his shoulder.

“Killian? Can you hear me?” she asked with a soft sob choking in the back of her throat. “What were you thinking?”

_I thought I could rid you all of the Darkness_ , he thought, bitterly. He thought if the Darkness had split itself the last time its potential hosts lay dying, then perhaps he could vanquish it altogether if both he and Rumple died simultaneously. The dagger was supposed to pierce both their hearts at the same time, but Rumple’s frantic reaction at Killian’s poorly timed taunt had ensured one of their survival. Even now, Killian could feel the tattered ends of the Darkness knitting together, the wounds not directly in contact with the blade healing over. 

It was only a matter of time before it reached full strength and would force Killian to remove the blade completely, or manipulate Emma or Henry to do so in its stead.

“I’m sorry, Sw-Swan,” he croaked against the pain, fixing his gaze up to hers.

“Shhh,” she soothed, running a hand through his freshly cropped hair. “Don’t talk like that.” 

A tear slipped from her cheek and hit his. He could feel Henry’s small hand take his own, and it was then he realized they thought he was dying. They didn’t realize the danger gaining power beneath the surface of his prone form.

“No,” he groaned, and Emma’s fingers gently pressed themselves against his lips.

“No more talking,” she admonished. “David’s called for an ambulance. They’ll be here soon.”

He attempted to shake his head, but a fresh wave of torment undulated from where the Darkness was nearly whole once more, causing his back to arch off the ground and grimace to pull at his features.

“No! No, no, no,” Emma cried, taking his face in her hands. “Killian, please! You have to hold on. For me. For Henry. We need you. Please, I… I don’t want to lose you.”

The pain subsided, but a new assault overtook him. The welcomed assault of Emma’s lips plastered against his own. It took all his remaining strength to reach up and bury his free hand in her hair, returning the urgency of her kiss with a heartfelt intensity of his own. The Darkness rebelled within him, a vehement revolt insisting he align himself with the collective now fully united, a demand to denounce his devotions to the woman his humanity was desperately clinging to as her mouth continued to press pleadings along his.

Two appeals on his soul, but only one was he willing to surrender to.

The might of the magic that expelled from where they had been joined forced their mouths apart. Killian felt the dagger dissolve in his hand, leaving his wound gaping and fully exposed. A scream of anguish tore from his lips, still tingling from Emma’s kiss and whatever magic it had produced. 

“What the hell was that?” He heard Emma exclaim, before several hands braced themselves against his chest, drawing out a fresh cry of agony from him.

“Killian, hold on!” Henry shouted. “The ambulance is almost here. Can you hear it?” 

Indeed, Killian could hear something. A god awful sound, like a banshee’s cry, grew closer, its caoine most certainly an omen of his imminent death. For he was surely dying, that much was clear. Somehow, the Darkness had left him. Expelled from his being. The dagger, naught more than ash scattered upon his chest, just like the heart he’d plucked from Rumple. He’d done it… somehow. Somehow. Some…

“Killian!” Emma lamented as his body went limp, his consciousness slowly slipping away. “Killian, no! Please! Please, come back to me! Come back to us!”

The banshee’s scream intensified briefly, until the icy fingers of death’s grip caused all around him to go silent, the expanse of oblivion stretching out before him in never ending blackness.

~/~

The steady beeps and rhythmic sounds of the machines echoed through the room like a soothing metronome, keeping time with the cadence of Killian’s heart and lungs, reassuring Emma with each passing moment even as the man lay still and silent in the hospital bed. His pale face had that unnatural pallor fluorescent lights often cast upon one’s skin, but his complexion had pinked up over the last few hours, giving Emma hope he might regain consciousness before visiting hours ended. Not that she planned to abide by them. Whale had another thing coming if he thought he could get her to leave Killian’s side until well after he woke up.

Even then… she wasn’t planning on going anywhere. 

The twitch of his hand, where Emma had hers placed since she’d been allowed in his room, alerted her to his stirring. His features morphed from serene and relaxed to pinched and pained as a croaking groan escaped his parched lips. Slowly, his lids opened, heavy from the anesthesia and drugs bombarding his system, and it took his vision a moment to clear before he finally seemed somewhat alert, his eyes darting over his surroundings until they landed on her.

“Emma?” 

It was more mouthed than spoken, his throat too dry to properly form words. Slipping her hand from his, she reached over to the elevated tray next to the bed and poured him some water. Guiding the straw to his lips, she warned him to drink slowly. Despite his attempt to take heed, he still sputtered when the cool liquid hit the back of his throat and another pained sound emitted through his grit teeth, which left imprints on the straw.

“Sorry,” Emma soothed, running her fingers through his hair in an effort to comfort him. “Everything is going to hurt for the next several days, but here…” She reached across him to place the painkiller dispenser in his palm and positioned his thumb over the plunger. “Whenever it gets too bad, just click this and it’ll give you something to help with the pain.”

“Another… marvel,” he croaked, a lop-sided smile forcing its way past the grimace. Tilting his head forward, he took another small sip of water, which went down much more cooperatively this time, then asked, “What… happened?”

Emma licked her lips and tried to calm her pulse. She’d been rehearsing what to say to him for hours, replaying the scene at the abandoned farm over and over again in her mind. 

“After, uh…” she began, stiltedly. “After we kissed this, um... black mass... sort of… well, it sort of leaked out of you and just vanished into the night. Then the dagger turned to ash, leaving you with an open wound in your chest that Henry and I had to keep pressure on until the paramedics arrived. Fortunately, they got there just as you lost consciousness and were able to keep you stable until Whale could get you into surgery, which lasted far longer than he said it would, by the way, but it all went well, and now you’re here. Recovering.”

His brows were pinched together, but whether it was from pain or confusion over her ramblings was anyone’s guess.

“The dagger… turned to ash?” he said. 

Emma nodded.

“A black substance… leaked out of me?”

Another nod.

“It must have been the Darkness, but… why? How?”

“Henry says we shared True Love’s Kiss,” Emma blurted out.

Killian balked, then hissed in an agonizing breath from the sudden movement. “Wh-What?”

Taking a deep breath, Emma calmed her frayed nerves and shared, “While you were gone from the house, Henry called his friend Violet to talk about the connection between the coven and the Dark One. She told him something she found in an old coven diary the library had. Henry thinks it explains what happened when we kissed.” Taking his hand once again, she met his questioning gaze and continued to impart, “It says, while the dagger is the only way to kill the Dark One, True Love is the only way to save him, so the Darkness withered the Dark One’s heart with every deal and act of evil until he had no choice but to exchange it. Because True Love lies in the heart, and without their actual heart…”

“The Dark One would never be able to find True Love,” Killian finished, a sense of awe coloring his words and shining from his forget-me-not eyes.

“Henry thinks that was the secret that ultimately led the Darkness to force the first Dark One to kill the witch. He also thinks my kiss… _our_ kiss... broke the curse, broke the Darkness’ hold on you, because you still have your heart. And then...” she gestured around them and added, “modern medicine did the rest to save your life.”

His hand tightened around hers, the pad of his thumb softly brushing over her knuckles as they simply stared into one another’s eyes, neither of them brave enough in that moment to voice what they both must be thinking.

“So,” he murmured after a long stretch of silence. “How long am I to remain here?”

Allowing the change of subject, for the moment, Emma reciprocated the caress on Killian’s hand and answered, “Whale says it’ll be a week to ten days before he’ll even consider letting you come home.”

“Home?”

The hope-filled yet cautious inquiry made Emma worry her bottom lip before replying, “That is… I mean, uh, if you wanted to,” she stammered. “I know Henry is expecting you to come and live with us, but we can certainly find you some other place to go, if you’d prefer. I mean, _I’m_ not expecting anything from you, I just thought that maybe--”

Emma toppled forward, both hands having been grasped and pulled out from under her. She did her best to catch herself so she wouldn’t further injure an already wounded Killian, but a soft grunt still caught in the back of his throat as Emma’s lips met his. He didn’t seem to mind the temporary bit of pain his action caused him, and quite frankly, neither did she.

Her eyes were still shut when they broke apart, but she remained close enough to feel his comment ghost across her lips. “I would love to come and live with you and Henry.”

Letting go a relieved and contented sigh, Emma’s eyes fluttered open and she pressed her forehead against his. “Good.” With their gazes still connected she assured him, “I know we still have a lot to discuss and figure out between us, but… right now, I just want to enjoy a quiet moment. With you.”

“I couldn’t agree more, love,” he said with a soft smile. “Besides. I’m sure, in due time, we’ll get around to engaging in a bit of… _intercourse_ ,” he teased with a knowing waggle of his brows.


End file.
